In a city of angels, each angel forever bears a fragile, wonderful biome for ever with them in their suit. Safe, protected, pure and inviolate, never changed by admixture or dilution. The angels speak in pulses of high-frequency radio waves repeating to each other how terrific and tremendous and hugely complex their internal environments are.
The plastic golems say the angels lie. There are no wonderful environments, only the dry husks of the urges of the demiurges.