Here, lines devolve. Mill, ogle, scout, waggle, point, chat, giggle, gab, prod, whatever. Freely, good, keep gazing, good, freely at your classmates’ last innocent ties to the old corrupted world, good. Touch. Should you come, good, upon anyone/anything you simply know, then by all means, Blurt! You were picked for your Enthusiasm plus your diehard talent at Belief. Don’t get shy on us now! Far nobler to lay claim to an overwide test group than knowing too few.

There will be no more talking for one-tenth of a nanosecond millennium. Simply drift among each other now. Steer and pirouette. Skate atop the attendant crust of light always blooming beneath each foot in time to perfectly support you. This is the smallest group of angels from that awful present age down there. You winged ones escaped your century’s major peril: self-pity’s flypaper.

All forms of Physics are now bent upon contenting you forever. Which means amusing you (which means instructing you). Heaven is secretly a school. Its only subject, the past and future history of Love …

Observe, fondle, stroke, Indian wrestle, hand-hold. Try several brands of hearty handshakes to make sure. Winnow forth from among yourselves those known most fully—via love—to you other saints. Shout a beloved name. Feel each other, feel each other up, my darling sudden angels. You’re allowed now, anything, always.

Pray, continue.

We have only time here, only time, our memories, and charity. You’ll all soon be absolutely crazy about each other. Fascinated, and I mean forever.

Here, no one will ever again leave you.

Heaven’s code name is “Hello.”

You have managed, you—of all your kinds and gangs. You have broken through the leaky outer edges of parlous actual love. You persisted when the wiser ones turned back. They retreated toward mere dignity, security. They’re in Hell or, worse, are nowhere. You chanced loving those that, trying, just … could … not … quite … fully … love … you … back.

Mother hold daughter. Man who drowned while clinging to a stranger, hold him close. You are strangers reborn brothers. “Hello” say “Hello” to “Hello.”

Let true pleasure—innocent and richly deep—at last begin. How can you know you’ve just found Paradise?

The Celestial offers you privacy. Plus perfect, funny, erotic company eternally.

BrotherSister, here we live beyond Race and Class and Shame. You need never again fear your own body. We all now play toward working. Existence is finally precisely understood because it is so perfectly recalled. Life’s become, at last, pure meaning.

There is nothing left to do beyond the one great promise.

Sound the Tympany, Master Pine, the Promise it is come. Play the gong, the flute, and strike the lyre, First Assistant Bach.

Now that Promise shall be heard!

The Conversation contains all God’s own favorite forms of bliss.

This is the single IOU ever due you.

This is the promise you saw carved clear through the overarching Gates of Paradise.