Tinsel

"Oof," it exclaimed (as the left side smoldered a bit). It took a sip of cocoa and sighed. "Okay." It opened its eyes again and grinned from horn to horn, bursting into flames from the right elbow to the right wrist. "OUCH," it groaned, head down but refusing to give up. It took a gulp of cocoa and used a bit of magic to repopulate the marshmallows in the bottomless cup. "Whew." "What are you doing?" came the angelic voice, and it sat up straight. "I ... I ... well, if you must know, Floaty and Fine (it was obligated to be sarcastic), I'm looking at Christmas lights," it growled. "But it burns to do so, yes?" the angel continued. "You're taking on pointless suffering for a moment of ... what? Beauty?" It sighed. "Yes and yes," came the weary, slightly sad voice. "But what's it to you, Winged Wonder?" "Touching," the angel whispered and waved its hand over the little imp, applying a barrier of celestial protection. "Open your eyes; look without fear for tonight." The imp marveled, seeing all of the lights (inside and out) - the flashers, the sparklers, the fake icicles hanging from roofs and railings, and the trees ... all of the little trees with their shiny orbs and twinkling bulbs. It was cheap, tawdry, garish, and utterly spectacular. "If I could die all over again, I'd like to be crushed by tinsel," the imp cooed (and the angel, who tried hard to resist, nodded and chuckled).