If angels could sing, what would they say? Would they sing, with their heavenly voices, of the death, darkness, and destruction that litters this world like a plague? Would they praise the wars, wars that end the lives of innocents, the wars fought in the name of holiness? Would they throw their chests out, their brilliant hair cast back among the clouds, soft and elegant, and joyously serenade murder, insanity, ignorance, and the pursuit of misery? As the angels sit in castles of sparkling white, and look down upon us, murdering and taking, wishing instead of acting, accepting faith in the stead of reason, seeking lies in the stead of truth, misery and self-pity in the stead of happiness, they must ask themselves what has gone awry.

Who is to say that the madman is wrong? He who cackles at nothing, laughing at air, finding joy in simple life, how is he wrong? He acts on impulse, seeking his one happiness and grabbing tight, letting it take him away, through dirt and mud, water and sky, brightness and beauty, rising above the squabbling masses who fight over scraps. It is he the angels smile at, he that inspires songs and tales, for he has pursued his own happiness until he found it at last, his face dirtied and his hair unkempt, but still he attached to it with a vigor, still he fought for himself, to improve this his only life, and the angels rejoice, for he has found the meaning of the bright gift of life, and it is this: the purpose of this astounding, beautiful existence, is to make life worth living, for you and you alone.