[ He doesn't bother pointing out that the sample pool of pests isn't exactly lacking: with two warm bodies around, the glint of mosquito wings around is unmistakable, occasionally catching in the light and awaiting an opportunity. (Angels had plenty of potential as well, until they didn't. Even they eventually outlived their usefulness, and he'd distilled them down to their parts for use in greater ventures. To ask him to find some intrinsic value of any life—big or small, archangel or mite—was pointless.)

Instead, he scoffs quietly, apparently unmoved by his graceful metaphor. ]

This world barely modifies my own.

[ The fine details are varied, but it's the same sort of creatures, the same texture of sand, the same type of oxygen that bonds the same way with his blood. If he jumps, he might even fall back to the ground with the exact same gravitational pull.

What was so amazing about that? Why was all of creation cast from the same, tired mold? ]

Do you suppose it's plagiarized? Or that the Creator of this stage is simply that uninspired?

[ Why does he have to respect every dull painting in a gallery? ]