Like Caillabotte’s man on a bridge, alone but for his despair, I am pensive. Unlike him, invisible in the throng, to me humanity is hidden now, when I could use their unknowing company regardless of any need, or not, for me. I wish I could go home, any of them, which must surprise you, coming from an angel. Still, consider how I first came to be. I was cast out of a womb. These wings, once white, were rewards for losing a physical life while saving another. They blackened when I was cast down for arguing with Him. Now they’re failing because, well, I tried too late to be good again. Angel: That noun doesn’t fit comfortably with homesick, the adjective. But what else can I be, after being cast into nowhere from the Pit? Where is home now?