Passing Words: Tim Curry

"No, please; I insist," one soul said to the other. "Ladies first." And they were glad they'd been chivalrous, both because it suited them and also because it placed them at the front of the line when the angel for the other person arrived looking inarguably splendid. "Well, of course, I'm simply happy to have made it," the soul shared (filled with a deep curiosity about the kind of angel that might step forward for its own reckoning), "but I'm also quite nervous ... as if I might still, out of character and here in my real self, deeply disappoint in some way. Miss the mark. Go so far that no one follows. That kind of thing." Peter touched its shoulder gently. "You are known and seen here," he whispered, "and loved - so loved." "How comforting that there's no accounting for taste," the soul teased (the grin as mischievous as ever) and then exclaimed, "Oh! Oh my!" And the angel was suddenly there beside them - glowing with a ridiculous amount of majesty and a staggering amount of charm. The soul, never at a loss for words in life, stood staring with its mouth open (looking up and down, up and down). "I'd tell you to take a picture, Love, but we don't allow cameras up here," the angel said in a nasal drone with long vowels (very much the accent of the soul's childhood). "Shall we?" And they did, beginning to walk; the soul turned then, grin back in place, and said excitedly to Peter (who shook his head and smiled), "I should've known you'd come at this thing with a truly DIVINE level of camp!"