Dreamed 1997/10/19 by Chris Wayan
I find myself standing atop a long curving dune, at a low saddle. Is it the rim of a crater? Robed figures glide up to meet me. Human mystics? or... angels?
Whoever they are, they tell me "We prayed for an archangel, a leader who knows what's going on."
And they got... ME? Now wait a minute!
But I go along with them. Oh, I feel like I'm bluffing, but... I'm not. I may not be very angelic, but I have the credentials. I have wings.
And I earned them. I went through Hell. No metaphor--I walked through Hell and up and out, step by step. I breathed that ashen air, I swallowed cinders... in fact, my asshole is still scratchy from a few grains of Hell still lingering inside me. Itch itch itch... Inside their new archangel, the answer to their prayer.
Ugh! I suppose my new friends (or worshipers) would really rather not know about my itchy butt. No need. Time and digestion will expel those last souvenirs. But (not to make a pun or anything...) I wonder if other angels have a little bit of Hell left in them too?
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