Dark angels stride across horizons. Their feet are encased in big soldier boots, encased in jack hammers and stilettos. Sigils of numbers and letters - secrets of worlds out of phase are etched into their ankles, their calves, their knees, their thighs. The ten thousand signs of nature, the ten thousand whispers of gods...elohim in mumbles and chants. The bending of reality, the stretch and pull of worlds, a pornography of intent towards spirit, towards the ghost of the curse, the curse of the human pulse. Dark angels spasm and distort, they clamber and they stride across horizons bent and old, but horizons nevertheless. The black sky of morning competes with the pink sky of evening, as drums roll and trumpets blast. Hallelujahs rain down on the plain as an icy blast of insincerity, no happy waving can ever pass that one for a reality, no shrug or smile, no bleat or cry. It is the way of things that dark angels stride and that men breath.
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