Angry empty voices scream in rhythm. They know why the glorious appear surreal in liquid shards of fire aesthetic and pleasing in appearance.

They throw off harmony and balance in their quest to be like the glorious, but they can only make absurd silhouettes of white angels. Hard and wild, writhing in pain because it is unnatural for them to assume these shapes.

Returning to their original figure, the voices are in a drunken stupor of rage. Mad because they cannot fulfill their wants, their desires. They become morose and pathetic, pining to dazzle like the glorious.

The voices do not realize that they can cause a miasma of passion. Electric blue shimmers like thousands of silver instruments on a soft summer day. Giving the impression of a monumental masterpiece.