Once we'd gathered the pearls from the snow, the mysteries  began to melt. There was no sun, and the white hills became a raging river of brown slush. We stood on the banks, watching how, among the empty bottles and the pieces of wood, the river was bearing away the dead angels, that had been asleep under the snow. How beautiful they are, we said, how even in this dirty river, their broken wings stay white, their faces untouched. Some of us went home at once to dream more angels and dream we did, that we lay on the floor of an hourglass, that, from the bright opening in the sky above us, snow was falling down and covered us. Others, meanwhile, ran to get their fishing tackle and began an angel fishing derby. Butchers joined them, who, in front of the photographers and crowds delirious, began to chop the angels up, as soon as they were landed, separating hunks of meat from entrails and wings, the latter later sold at auction. These were the realists, people who loved angels from up close and would later burn at the stake. Nor did we fare much better. The whiteness in which we died was swept away, and all at once we felt the hooks that tied us, while we were still alive to this only, this therefore best of all worlds.