"It is the cat's," the Angel confessed. "I simply organize on its behalf."

It has always found a power in unpredictability and ambiguity. Most conversation reduces the possibility space; people talk until they are sure. It is rare to be able to increase entropy with words, and there is always something compelling and perverse about that.

"I lack names for the things around me," said the Angel of the Harvest. It remained crouched and still, aware that it was masked and bloody to the elbow - and maybe too much entropy might unravel the situation entirely. "Please provide me with the required words."