HEAVENLY CONFUSION

The angels weren’t ready for this one. They’d tuned the harps. Polished the trumpets. Rehearsed welcomes for souls who took the direct route—not ones who walked through hell first. An angel held out flowers, uncertain. Another played trumpet anyway because silence felt like admitting no one knew the protocol. Behind the Daydreamer: the shore, the desks, the graves, the flames. The whole series. We live. We work. We die. And sometimes—if we wander right—there’s one more chapter than we were promised.