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ArtistKeep as is
The saints arrived wearing dust instead of halos, boots full of rain, pockets rattling with broken clocks and bent keys. God was tending bar with scarred hands, pouring galaxies into chipped coffee mugs while the band scraped out a tune that sounded like freight trains praying. The dervishes spun until the stars forgot who was chasing whom. Every cracked heart became an accordion, breathing the first wind back into the world. Nobody asked for forgiveness; they danced their sins into sparks. The angels laughed like drunks at closing time. Dawn stumbled in smelling of whiskey and cedar smoke, and God winked across the room: “Kid, heaven was never quiet—it’s the loudest party you’ll ever survive.”
