The Beginning of Heaven's Banquet

The halls open for all. Warmth glows in, through the gaps in a golden door, as the entrance unlocks for the choir to step in and answer their work's call.

One by one, each member walks, in line, into the building. First enters the tallest, dressed in a tall snowy hat and shiny snowy robes trailing behind. Second comes a slightly shorter man, worn in red robes and a gold necklace, with a cross hanging by chain in kind.

Then comes more along the line, descending by height the further you get along.
A line which turns to mush. Each person of smaller height the further you get along.
The further you get along: men, women, children. All in the same bright white shirt and bright white pants and bright yellow shoes that go clickety and clackety when they hit the marble path, leading into the bright white building.

Little soldiers marching on; in lead of the big ones standing tall and standing strong.
The Gods' whistle brings them back to duty,
to deliver a golden dish for the splendid people.
Divinity of the Gods.
The bell they toll for the dish to cook tonight,
will be that which the Gods shall dine upon in respite.
For an eternity is but a bored existence;
for they but sit around, giving each other questions.
Questions they already know the answers to.

And prancing around a red ribbon, in golden resolve, along comes the people of the choir marching down the royal carpet, rolled down along the stadium-sized, grand hall of solid gold.

Along the royal carpet rolls a dining table, stretched out with chairs, white and pale;
plates, right and frail; and candles, useless as always.
The candles are lit—despite the hall already filled in light—with the chandelier hanging above all, from its towering height. And to the left: a stairs flight. It leads both up and down, endless in its depth and endless is its climb. 

The golden man walks from the steps. He jumps over to the choir, cartwheeling over to them. And along with him comes his black cat, purring and barking at its golden owner.
He—the golden man—picks up the cat, like a new-born child, and leads the choir to where their stage is at; its apparel: royally trialled.

And how royally trialled the grand stage it is too; with its gold, wooden planks and gold, wooden benches and gold cages—made from real gold—with small, little, gold birds—not made from real gold.
A treasure trove of riches. Sparkled and glimmered. Juicy like a fresh star and shiny like a shooting fruit.

He reaches the stage and sits his black cat down on their golden nest of a bed—not too close to hug the floor and neither so tall nor cornered by wall. And too, placed on the far left of the choir's page of play: front, not; near back, so. View to all. All to view.

The choir walk along the hall; the line's soldiering march carrying on for at least 100 meters or 100 yards. But yet, the line only grows. The shrinking, Russian dolls of white and yellow—endless in their queue. A mirror's mirroring mirror. Infinite. Perpetual. Forever youthful and forever old. A tail's trail untellable in length, with no way to weigh its weight. Well, not this time—at least not as of late. 

And it is to be not late, that the choir follow the fated sate of Their appetite. And it is so that, one by one, each member walks over to their stage; each empty, gold wooden bench giving house to a new member, every passing second. Musical chairs in echoing silence. Muted song for all, yet none, to hear.

***

As the choir fiddles into position, the golden fiddle of the golden man fiddles itself too into position. The golden man reaches into his golden, trouser pocket to pull out that golden fiddle. He plays it with his golden bow—pulled from his other golden, trouser pocket—and plays it with his golden, flawless hands.

Truly, yet another masterpiece to behold. His fingers effortless in their craft. Professional. Expert. Genius. The words cannot compare to their talent; their masterful performance, unlike anything else. A divine talent. The skill of a god.

The golden man plays a high note with his fiddle; a kitchen comes rolling down the stairs to the bells ding. Knives flying, spoons flying, forks flying. An imaginary cookbook reads out in the golden man's mind. The choir is soon to sing.

A fish is to be prepared.