[sic]

Place yourself, maybe, high in twinkling aether. Feel the syrupy light glisten wetly on raw skin.
All twinkles, inane rhymes.
Then a smoky claw plunges upwards and plucks you from stars,
An apple from Eden.
You are being dragged by the heavy wrath-flushed wraith through Clouds: Slab; Slab; Slab.
They break on you like a mortar, and air is chill shrapnel.

We are now flying at 32,000 feet. In the event of an emergency, please turn to God.

It's a whiteness now, Angel, and you have struck the smouldering ground, but the hole is in yourself.
Haul your Soul out of your eyes and pan it through pity, but be wary, newness, all that glitters is not
High in delicate air, playing stolen eagle bones, you short-sighted Sun Warrior.

Give me, give us, our crush of air,
My restraint and cute idiocy.
Many skulls stare at many deities, sockets burning with invisible and fevered exclamations.

Play on, Inquisitor, you're such a fine man,
(Do it like nobody's watching),
You alone know the truth: That fingernails are eyes and blood, sight.
Please return verdict to 'Civilisation@world.net'.

Because God is there, leaning on us.
Surely we can feel him, and are glad. Happy are ye.

Faith? Faith! I can't see properly,
Where are you?