Angels in the Architecture

My friend, Christian, really likes the piece "Angels in the Architecture" by Frank Ticheli. I had been meaning to listen to it for a long time, but I never got around to it. So, today at about two in the morning I decided to give it a listen. After only the first minute, I was so inspired that I started writing something.
It's the product of late-night stupor, homework stress, and maybe a little of something else. I recommend you read it while listening to the piece.

The stars glistened in the sky. It was still quite warm out for night. It was light and dark at the same time.

“Have you ever really thought about… angels?”

“Like, what do you mean?”

“You know, if they are real, where they spend most of their time. Sometimes I think there’s some sort of alternate dimension, and they can move into ours sometimes to help us.”

“Yeah, that sounds easy to explain. Then, do you think, we might accidentally influence their dimension sometimes?”

“Woah. And then you know, the angels could be accidentally helping us as well.”

“What if they’re just normal people like us, but we’re divided by something?”

“A whole ‘nother universe, just stuck on the other side of the walls…”

“Maybe we see them in art. Maybe they come through in paintings, in music, and in architecture.”

“I like that. But it also makes me feel sad. Could we ever meet the angels?”

“I guess we could find out by making art.”

“Lure them out into the open?”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

It was early in the morning. The air was still wet with dew, and the sky was still tinged with pink. There was simultaneous peace and anxiousness.

“Any luck recently?”

“No, and I’m starting to think we just made all that stuff up.”

“So what if we did? That doesn’t mean it’s not worth something. Your music is still wonderful.”

“But I feel like I wrote it for the wrong reasons. I wrote it to lure out the angels.”

“Then that’s probably why it hasn’t worked out! This has to be about true art, true love, for it to work.”

“I don’t know what you want me to find, but I’ve been at this for so long that I think I must have missed it.”

“It’s okay to look for something, but it has to be something—the greatest something there ever was.”
“Well, if you’re such an expert on it, why haven’t YOU done anything lately?”

“I’ve already found my angel.”

The winter wind whipped along the ground. The snow, the sky, the walls; everything in white. Purity… or death?

“Maybe we all live in alternate dimensions, just waiting to cross paths with someone. Maybe we’ve been looking in our own dimension for too long to see that your angel was very close by, hidden in the architecture. Maybe we call them angels because they will be perfect. Some people can’t find their angel, but they try and do anything they can to find them. It is a terrible thing, when someone can’t find their angel, but a person has not wasted their life if they spend it searching. Hope is a powerful force, and if it can’t help you find your angel, it must be able to propel us onward, into the next great something.”