God complains that the angels have become nihilists. Sure, He says, they’ll herald, but only apocalyptic news. They instill maddening images in the minds of My prophets: birds flying towards erasure; moons eating moons. On barstools cast in gold, God and I sit, shaking our heads. Annihilated by His presence, I’m resurrected again and again. He sighs, animating the ice cubes in His glass. He utters a word, and the angels all vanish. The flirty bartender vanishes. The belly of time distends. All I’ve ever wanted, He says, is a creature that fears me and calls it love.