a n g e l e s

He isn't quite asleep, nor yet quite awake; he lies on his bed with his only movement gentle breathing. He watches his ceiling for angels, for angels in white Grecian robes, who creep in dignity from the cracks in the plaster, and whisper poetry to him. His Muses, with their scrolls and quills, and green laurel crowns. They have slanted blue eyes and golden coils of hair, a rich gold like sun-struck honeycomb.

If Enjolras wore the proper clothes, he might look like Jehan's Muses. Perhaps that is why the poet is so quick to compare him to an angel.

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