My idiot angel

My idiot angel looks back at the world with a gaping mouth—the toothache of a drunken morning. One eye is alert– a lighthouse erected on shore. The other eye is an imbecile. He perches on leftover debris, falling over and staring at everyone who passes, daring them to stare back. A storm finally breaks through— he raises his hands above an open flame and begs the world silently, “Please swat at me like the mosquito I am. It doesn't have to be like this.” His wings were muddied from the sludge. A light shone down the street, reflections of the angel in broken glass scattered around. He looked at himself as predator and prey and raised his arms in celebration despite the glass lodged in his flesh. What a thrill to be both gone and present at once. To be leaving. “I had seen all I would ever need to. I had done all I could”, he thought. The air finally began to soften.

Paul Klee, Angelus Novus, 1920