So I’ve heard that in the Warsaw Ghetto, where corpses littered the streets, residents would write on any scrap of paper they could find–poems, stories, diary entries, bits of prose, snippets of information– roll up these messages and shove them into small crevices in the wall around their prison. They surely did this hoping their words would survive even if they didn’t. They did this knowing little about the world outside those walls, and perhaps even knowing that their written cries of anguish could well end up as more fodder for the laughter of madmen. One such message may have told the story of a notorious, purple-winged angel who was always bitching and complaining about one thing or another. God said, Quityerbitchin and do something. The angel decided that the only appropriate thing to do would be to cut off his purple wings and cut out his sharp tongue. Now mute and flightless, the angel began to weep copious tears that turned into scraps of paper on which people wrote messages of hope that would survive and be read forever.