"What do you mean, when you say 'angel'?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean why do you call me that. What does that word mean to you?"

"You know what it means."

"Sometimes I think I do."

"It means dark thing. Because there's a violence to it. Because it's hard to see. Like looking at the body in the distance- the thing standing between the trees, with only the faint glow of the moon illuminating its face."

"You think angels are dark?"

"I think angels are mysterious. You know they're there, but that's it. You think you know what they are, what they look like, but you're incapable of grasping their image."

"So, what does that look like?"

"It looks like everything. And nothing. Total darkness, blinding light."

"Sounds.. overwhelmingly incomprehensible."

"That's why it looks like different things to different people. A woman, a man, the recurring nightmare from your childhood. Some people think it looks wrong. But to an angel, there is no wrong way to have a body."

"Now why does that sound familiar?"

"I think an angel looks like a sword. Like the terrifying indifference of nature, and the undying, righteous rage of a person with a good heart. All and none, never wrong in their being."

"And this is what you call me?"

"Yes. This is what I call you.
My darling mystery. My dark thing.
My angel."