feathery languages drip through the seams of the sky. Orange burns the songs of the choirs as the colossal flaw in my personality casts me down beneath your shoes.
If there were a reason for our pride we would have known it by now. Instead we gather stones and offer puke.
I dance the mad prophet dance but my limbs are stupid frail things and none will believe such a flimsy attempt. The hoards of forgetful angels march on over the bones of their fallen children. They laugh at the crunching sounds.