[He avoids this one, feels the darkness hiding behind that innocent face. Every living thing needs to sleep, needs to dream, but this one doesn't live, and he doesn't want to know how that's so.]
[ He doesn't sleep either. Too many souls to pull away. Mary, Blessed Mary, will you come out and play today? Or does the dog hold you still in his jaws? ]
[She looks up shyly. You don't dream of your sick father, angel, angel? What would you dream of if you could, Azrael? The pad of her thumb finds its way between her teeth, biting down harshly.]
[ Mortality is a dream. Vivid. Lucid. An eternity that has stretched on since the Great Mystery willed His universe into being. And the Unknown, a small part of all this greatness, sweltering in his white mask and his madness. Time and space forget him as he forgets them. The dreams of the Eighth are all illusions and human reality and holy fever.
Aborted children turning into snow and rotted flesh melting into dew.
[Her breath comes unevenly, small breasts rising and falling erratically in the cotton of her dress. She wants things from him. Laughter, play, burns, hatred. She keeps each bottled in carefully, but she has never resisted temptation well, ha-Satan knows. He warns her, once, the mark on her throat tightening.
Aborted children turning into snow and rotted flesh melting into dew.
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That would be too quick.
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No, no, they have to wait while I tear them open, they can't leave until I say so, until I have been inside them. Blackie won't take them too soon.
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Aborted children turning into snow and rotted flesh melting into dew.
Oh, Mary. ]
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Aborted children turning into snow and rotted flesh melting into dew.
It sounds so beautiful, angel.]
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