I am well aware that my prayers make you cringe, and justifiably so, for they are indeed cringe-worthy. I do not wish to deny the impunity, nor the silliness, of my brazen requests and demands. Nor do I expect you to understand the plight of a lowly and twisted creature who is disdained and ostracized not only by lofty beings such as yourselves, but by his own kind. You wonder, as do I, why a self-obsessed reject of society was admitted to the Throne Room in the first place.

But it so happened last night, as you surely recall, that a bed was carried into the chamber. Sprawled upon it, you were shocked to see, was a youth neither ill nor deceased. It was I, and as I was brought before the Throne, I sensed the mortification on your faces, the embarrassment in your eyes, and the discomfort with which you averted your gaze. I heard you whispering among yourselves, "Is this boy so shameless that he cannot even be bothered to sit up while he speaks before the King of Kings?"

Then I was placed before the Throne, and I began to speak to G-d on High. I did not begin with praise, I did not end with thanks, I did not measure my words. I uttered things, blasphemous things, for which there is no justification. You gasped and covered your eyes and ears. Thus, you did not see the kindness and the love with which G-d received my words, and luckily so, for the confusion would doubtlessly be too much for you to bear.

And so, Heavenly Angels, while I cannot defend nor explain what happened last night, I do sincerely apologize for making you cringe.