Are you joining us today, John?
Do I have a choice?
They smile, bright black eyes, shiny teeth, teased hair making a wadded nest for their halos glowing distant behind their heads. All standing together in the choir, dressed in dingy white, ghost-like wings molting, showing yellowed bony structure underneath.
My harp is dented and tarnished. I pluck the same string over and over and let it echo its monotonous drone while they sing, their voices tinny and hollow, and echoing, echoing, echoing.