Bug.

A formless shroud, a faceless head, lacking as if a sad butterfly without wings. This thing, it crawls begrudgingly across the sky, leaving a rift in Time, a wake in the pessimistic imagination of a failing God. As a great boat in a small lake it forges Chaos, and all the humans in the world clutch to the shore of reality, screaming at its wild fringes that flow divinely like the long skirts of maidens dancing. The people laugh maniacally in fear that a beauty so great could steal their minds and render them artists, musicians, philosophers, useless prototypes of a dead past in a world that cannot be revived, and will not see a Golden Age again. This is how the creature attempts to sing; through the lamenting tune of a lost soulless insect trying to rub its legs together, wanting to chirp cheerfully like a cricket, but yielding only a tiny resonating ring buried by the loud sounds of a suffering humanity. It drags its body insipidly through Space, does not give up in interrupting our paradigm, and occasionally smiles as it pesters God to stay alive while He dreams of Suicide. And those that can hear it call it faery music, the laughter of ghost children riding the wind, or a sigh of relief from the voice of Love. And those with the sensitive ears will clutch onto the fringes to hitch a ride on the skirts of the maidens that dance beyond Death, for no other reason than to hear more clearly the notes in the song of such promising little bug.