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Paper Bags and Angels
At one thirty in the morning, with cold, fat rain beating against your head, a paper bag is a piece of heaven. It’s just as much a piece of heaven as any angel. ‘Cause angels don’t come down anymore. They can’t be expected to stop by and hold their wings over your head just as the hardest part of the storm hits and people in their Mercedes drive by and pretend they don’t see you, sopping wet and shivering. But my paper bag, that’s my angel.