"An angel came to me. She was beautiful. Her hair was golden fire, her wings a soft embrace. When she spoke, a chorus resounded within my ears and my soul. I looked upon her countenance and thought to burn my eyes from my head. There was no greater beauty I could experience. She told me that such a thing was not necessary, and that a memory was the strongest emotion. I sought to keep her forever, and so I took her halo, and removed her wings. There was no greater beauty in an Angel fallen through her own perfection."
"I looked upon my fallen angel, her grace and beauty, all shattered and marred by my desecration, and thought about perfection. I am but a mortal man, who was willing to commit the ultimate blasphemy for my own desires. I cannot create perfection, but to destroy something is to have complete comtrol over it. To hold that control is not to manifest or will such a thing into existance, and so I ensured my damnation by sating my lusts upon an angel who sat wingless and tattered on the floor. There were tears in my eyes as I touched her, my flesh burned upon contact with her body. I could smell the blood which remained from her wings, and it seared my nostrils. I cannot create perfection, I can merely seek to achieve a glimmer of it.
"I fell numb, and was dumbstruck by her tears. I had plucked from heaven a perfection and a beauty, and I allowed her to rot. I am not God, I am his creation, as imperfect as she was perfect. My memory was dulled of her beauty before I took her halo and 6 wings as my own. I can't believe in a creation so immaculate, that can be destroyed by hands as filthy as mine. I am not Lucifer, but I know his struggle. I tasted that plight and felt an addiction overcome me. The angel lays still and quiet in my room. She is dead, her loss from her heaven enough to destroy her. I am responsible, but it was not I who created her, merely unmade her. She was right. I suffer and desire that desecration, memories of her are the most powerful emotion.
I felt her screams echoing in my ears, thundering down the halls of my mind, shattering every mirror, breaking every wall. For every octave her voice was raised, another part of me was broken. I dipped my fingers into her blood, tasted it, salted with the mix of tears.
"The nature of self-loathing comes from an intense desire to become perfection in it's ultimate form. I have discovered my own self worth, and it is an angel's blood and tears, mixed with my sweat. I painted my own eyes in her crimson shades, hoping her purity would burn the sight from my eyes, but it did not a thing. I let her halo tarnish and fade, it's glimmer lost among the ravages of disuse. Her body and her wings rotted, as I wandered through an Oubliette within my own mind. Lost, seeking to call down another angel, to do it all over again. I am hopelessly addicted to the defilement and desecration of perfection. I am a junkie for the touches of God's finest creations. I rot within my own desires as that angel rotted within my home. I am the distilled waste of human spirituality."
"There came a moment in my life when I realized attaining perfection lay at the hands of a being beyond me. I reached to the heavens, begging for a salvation which never came. I knew myself to be a base and filthy being. I was the sum of cigarette ash and cheap liquor. I am not pretty and I am not unique and I am not special. Just as I pulled the wings from and angel, and use her halo to hold up my shower curtain, I know that I am lost the salvation, and I am lost to the grace which I beheld once. There was rain on the streets as I smoked my way to an oblivion which seemed too long in coming. I had an addiction to feed, and the whores which frequented the streetcorners were nothing more than a diversion, a skin-pop to a junkie. I had beheld an angel. I touched her and held her. I did not make love to that angel, I fucked her, and in fucking her, I fucked myself."
"I looked upon my fallen angel, her grace and beauty, all shattered and marred by my desecration, and thought about perfection. I am but a mortal man, who was willing to commit the ultimate blasphemy for my own desires. I cannot create perfection, but to destroy something is to have complete comtrol over it. To hold that control is not to manifest or will such a thing into existance, and so I ensured my damnation by sating my lusts upon an angel who sat wingless and tattered on the floor. There were tears in my eyes as I touched her, my flesh burned upon contact with her body. I could smell the blood which remained from her wings, and it seared my nostrils. I cannot create perfection, I can merely seek to achieve a glimmer of it.
"I fell numb, and was dumbstruck by her tears. I had plucked from heaven a perfection and a beauty, and I allowed her to rot. I am not God, I am his creation, as imperfect as she was perfect. My memory was dulled of her beauty before I took her halo and 6 wings as my own. I can't believe in a creation so immaculate, that can be destroyed by hands as filthy as mine. I am not Lucifer, but I know his struggle. I tasted that plight and felt an addiction overcome me. The angel lays still and quiet in my room. She is dead, her loss from her heaven enough to destroy her. I am responsible, but it was not I who created her, merely unmade her. She was right. I suffer and desire that desecration, memories of her are the most powerful emotion.
I felt her screams echoing in my ears, thundering down the halls of my mind, shattering every mirror, breaking every wall. For every octave her voice was raised, another part of me was broken. I dipped my fingers into her blood, tasted it, salted with the mix of tears.
"The nature of self-loathing comes from an intense desire to become perfection in it's ultimate form. I have discovered my own self worth, and it is an angel's blood and tears, mixed with my sweat. I painted my own eyes in her crimson shades, hoping her purity would burn the sight from my eyes, but it did not a thing. I let her halo tarnish and fade, it's glimmer lost among the ravages of disuse. Her body and her wings rotted, as I wandered through an Oubliette within my own mind. Lost, seeking to call down another angel, to do it all over again. I am hopelessly addicted to the defilement and desecration of perfection. I am a junkie for the touches of God's finest creations. I rot within my own desires as that angel rotted within my home. I am the distilled waste of human spirituality."
"There came a moment in my life when I realized attaining perfection lay at the hands of a being beyond me. I reached to the heavens, begging for a salvation which never came. I knew myself to be a base and filthy being. I was the sum of cigarette ash and cheap liquor. I am not pretty and I am not unique and I am not special. Just as I pulled the wings from and angel, and use her halo to hold up my shower curtain, I know that I am lost the salvation, and I am lost to the grace which I beheld once. There was rain on the streets as I smoked my way to an oblivion which seemed too long in coming. I had an addiction to feed, and the whores which frequented the streetcorners were nothing more than a diversion, a skin-pop to a junkie. I had beheld an angel. I touched her and held her. I did not make love to that angel, I fucked her, and in fucking her, I fucked myself."
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
Ummm..happy christmas