Angels are blind forces of creation, calling forth new life by their very presence.
Demons, former angels, upon gaining personalities, retain vague memories of creation, and therefore, can't help meddling.
Which explains both the bee and the wasp, as well as whale fossils in Egypt's bone-dry Wadi Al-Hitan.
And possibly avocados and Osage oranges.
So, as the tall man in black meddled in a snow-filled wood, the crazy unintended child of an angel finally pushed his way into a better neighborhood.
Or rather, someone else's corner of the Liminal.
Which was pretty much the same thing, as anywhere was better than Salad Finger's corner of the Liminal.
Including this one.
It was green, but the birdsong was simply that, all song, no bird.
No insects sang in the grass, but there was insect song.
Likewise frogs in the nearby pond. Croaking minus the frog.
Salad Fingers frowned up at someone else's memory of the hard blue sky of a long ago Midwestern August where he lay on his back panting and wet from where he'd forced his way in out of sheer, desperate loneliness.
This would not do.
He sat up, silver droplets of raw creation spilling from his tattered clothing and bare skull.
A small plastic horse fell out of the remains of his trench coat.
The small plastic horse, which was covered in polka dots, hit the earth, shuddered, whinnied, and galloped away towards the distant river, expanding into a real horse as it went.
Watching Horace Horsecollar gallop away from him, Salad Fingers didn't notice at first the small frog drop from the rotting cloth of his sleeve until it landed near his filthy bare foot with a damp plop.
"Oh!" Rabid Beatrix Potter fanboy that he was, Salad Fingers started, and then delightedly picked up Jeremy Fisher, gently holding the wee fisherman up to the sun high in the cobalt sky in his skeletal hands, tittering in delight, tears running jaggedly down his cheeks, almost but not quite looking like Thomas Andrews, a very shy young man who'd once written Miss Potter a very polite letter telling her of his admiration for her paintings of little creatures and how one day he too, hoped that he could paint wee creatures as well as she, and that he'd really liked her little books.
(Even if Glassmother said if they were for small children and imbeciles.)
As Salad Fingers, no, TOMMY, pulled his battered flute from his coat pocket, where it'd been all along, Jeremy was quickly followed by Jemima Puddleduck, Squirrel Nutkin, and Peter Rabbit, minus his little coat and shoes, as well as Flopsy, Mopsy and Cotton-tail…
Who hit the ground chattering, quacking and squeaking as the ruined legs of Tommy's trousers, his shirt sleeves, his coat pockets, even the moth-eaten shreds of wool scarf wrapped around his chemically scarred neck and the remains of his shirt collar birthed Tom Kitten and then Mrs. Tiggy-winkle (hedgehogs are cute, but nothing you want to keep in your shirt because of the prickles) followed by two bad mice and a burst of songbirds which Tommy had dearly missed in the trenches even as Tommy, Tommy's flute, and Tommy's clothes slowly sank towards the ground, emptying of wee creatures which scampered into the now no longer empty landscape, giving faces to the songs already there.
Soon all that was left of Tommy was the clatter of a flute landing on gravel and a small, empty pile of filthy rags in a scattering of rusty spoons as Horace Horsecollar, having had a lovely roll in the grass, grazed in the noonday sun, tail swashingly content.