Divine Favouritism

This is a pretty simple story, so I’m going to tell it straight without meandering through literary devices or tiring prose. 
Once upon a time, someone was born screaming and covered in urine. Some days later he would be named Miguel, some years later he would be made fun of for his worn-out shoes, some many years later he would be mugged in Paterson while going to look at the falls.
At the admittedly untender age of 24, the forces beyond would decide they favored Miguel above all other mortals, and show this with a cubistic angel soaring on a chorus of trumpets that would approach Miguel’s window in the pouring rain. The angel shifted its form and seamlessly emerged into the small Verona apartment, saying, “Miguel Salazar, you have been chosen by the angels to be of infinite blessing. All those desires you have are to be fulfilled, and all those cruelties that scrape into your life on their bellies to be smote until you return to perfect aether. You are the most divine soul among men,” to which Miguel replied, “Thank you very much. I appreciate that.”
The next day, Miguel tasted the greatest thing he’d ever known, which caught him off guard as it was Trident chewing gum. There was a sunset that night, which bended the limits of colour so thoroughly that it made Miguel cry like a little girl. There was a sunrise the next morning of the same caliber, and blue moons all the time. There were eclipses when he wanted, high tides when he was hot.
On the road, twenty menwomenchildren on a bus were suddenly tossed forward and were all instantly severed from their lives, the driver being thrown through the front glass to the tip of Miguel’s Nike’s which rested still and uncaring in the middle of the road. The driver, seconds 
till death and perfectly coherent from shock, asked Miguel, quite genuinely, “Why?” to which Miguel looked to the sky and replied, “Many sorries, mister, I though they’d let you swerve.”
Miguel got a house by the city, then a house by the sea, and then a house on the hills. Miguel got wine from a watercooler once, and saw that it was good. 
On the news a boy was forced to talk to cold microphones holding fancy suits while he laid in a whimpering gown with five holes in his belly that the Taliban put there. Miguel said to himself, “that’s no good,” and so it wasn’t, and the boy walked out the hospital two days later. A rough week later, the boy would be shot in the head, and given a shallow-stream burial.
I told you I’d tell it straight.
Some very good things happened in Miguel’s life, a few to very good people. A few bad diseases were cured, a few school shooters given help prior. Miguel tried to tell people he did it all, and most people laughed, and many people suffered.
Miguel never fell in love. That’s the long and short of it.
In his late thirties, Miguel caught an unsmitable cough that would eventually start expelling bloody phlegm by the pound. Meanwhile, his lungs crumpled up and cubized; his voice lost all beauty; he lost all appetite for life’s ever-delicious foods; a great big explosive darkness spread throughout his body starting from his lungs and spreading to his everywhere else. Too strong for the angels, the darkness was content enough to just spread around a while as Miguel did not - could not - die. For some time, the blessed mortal sludged around like he was hollowed out; eaten away into a fleshy skeleton who’d coughed up everything but from his body and whose gorgeous brown eyes had become so cancerous that they were fully yellow like bad teeth. After a while - it was a long time - the cancer cells got bored and died. After that, Miguel said to his angel, “okay, so getting that from life, mister, I’m going to want to take a look-see if death is anytime soon for me, eh?”
After that, Miguel had slightly less say in what his desires were, and therefore what desires were fulfilled. He met a beautiful young woman at a bar, him looking and acting like a tired old man of 46. Naturally, she went home with him and gave him her number and three months later said, “I love you, I always have and always will,” to which Miguel replied, “yes, yes. That sounds right. That sounds perfectly right, it always does.”
She was not the girl of his dreams. At 25, Miguel realized his dreams were all the same as his real life and its perfection, and broke down sobbing, retching into his pearly toilet bowl, asking, “please take them away. No more of that.”
When they got married, the happy couple kissed; both of them tasted drywall. Every foreign face at the wedding said, “why, she’s beautiful,” to which Miguel replied, “yeah, they did good work on this one, good work indeed. She looks good, she loves me. What else is there?”
After the wedding she asked, “Miguel, what do you love most in the world-” he cut her off, “you, get it?! Does it make you all happy?! I love her I love her I love her! Life itself!”
When the days grew longer, they were made to be twelve hours.
The blind honeymoon was in Martinique, and Martinique was lovely.
Six hours.
At fifty-five, Miguel decided the wife game was so despicable he couldn’t even stand it anymore. “Just let her go, she’s had enough, guys.” And she was gone to less than dust.
Three hours.
At twelve o three on a monday, with the echo of the church bells, William Clinton was sitting on a bench feeding a dog-walker’s dog. The cubistic angel seemed to crawl and creep about Miguel’s back with its long, break-bendy arms and legs. He was old. Many miracles ago, William Clinton mugged Miguel Salazar for fifty bucks and a driver’s license. Miguel didn’t remember. The angel did. William Clinton suffered a massive heart attack that very night, and then Miguel remembered, and then he cried.
Two hours, final offer.
“Okay,” he was very, very old, “this isn’t right.”
One hour!
“No, no, no, no, no. Won’t do this time. This isn’t right. I don’t want it anymore, just go away. Leave me alone, please. Just go away, just please leave me alone.”
The next day, Miguel Salazar would be burned in his home by the sea until his ashes were unburiable and unrememberable. Nobody cared.
The next day after that, the cubistic angel was floating along an old college dorm when it saw a college student without a roommate. With the sound of trumpets, it knocked on the windowpane, whispering “May I come in?”