Hark! The herald angel is shrieking in tongues again! A broken half bottle held high, stabbing wildly at cheeky ghosts with his good arm, oratorical sweeps with sticky green shards of jagged truth, each catching the dim reflection of an empty room. Belch forth that white plume of unchecked, unread gospel and watch your wings fold up - rot, wither and crust over with disuse. The correlation is direct, the lines parallel. Pluck the last bit of hope off each naked flap before they disintegrate completely. Whispered : Keep it safe! From up here the whole stage is set in fragmented plan view, wretched dots trudging along tightrope lives, giving off that neon whorehouse flicker you'd expect from uncertain belief. One drunken cherub in a barfight with himself won't change the outcome, of that you can be sure. I've picked the feathers off those wings for long enough. Can you reassemble a thought from the decaying vestige of its freshest victim? Can you sew the wings back on? Whispered : We'll see.

Comments

m.
You worry me.

Nate
Ahem. This is what happens when I don't actually have a _topic_ to write about. Five minutes of furious typing, followed by a reckless click on the PUBLISH POST button! Cheerio!