the good angels all stood about in the wardrobe, wiggling their fingers in moth-eaten coats, while the hardboiled eggs (such frightful gossips!) whispered lies about crocodile skulls to one another. they said that it was smiling, for instance, while it was really more of a smirk- they said the cherry harvest was bad this year, & that it was the great croc's fault, that it was named tick-tock & had been the very same reptile to bite off captain james hook's hand. the good angels thrust their hands in their pockets, mumbling things about the grey spaces in a system with a lack of free will, scuffing the toes of their feet in the camphor (heels never touching the ground). outside the wardrobe, outside the hotel, drowning in the sounds of the cicadas, the other angels searched for the crown KETHER, hoping at long last to end the war for succession.