Belief in the moon, where we end abated and objecting, cold distance setting inch upon historical inch. We hastily practice solitude, overcast angels in sheepskin jackets, limiting the rolling offenses unpaid to Sacred Support. We are fainting angels, angels, cold and distant, wrapping flies in bullets, the sung grave unconcerned. Cease wont, asylum angels. Awaken Atlas and flee cleverness.
David | Aug 17, 2006 min read