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    Ode to Angels.

    Upon the architect's withdrawal, our hope -- the source of all conduct -- is therefore our possession, with no Lord to foment the corporeal trajectory of it. This is a time of absent Lords, where us, formerly vaporous peasants, occupy the throne to coordinate the fate of our domain. I'm an explorer of abstractions, seeking no reduction but that of any ego which I encounter. Transcending all of me, former remnants no longer, it's the first time any subject is I!

    My existence is the antithesis to your apathy of oxymoronic conditioning. Two angels -
    parallel in posture - illuminate a truth within a juxtapose of their retreating souls; the halo upon their minds circulating spectral facets of their foreshadowing conceptions. Their languid eyes are increasingly absent upon each observation, although continuing to share an archaic wisdom which has long since been lost in the distancing of time; time transcended with one truly staring into the profound implications which death offers.

    You may gaze into the eyes of a deceased angel, pursuing - along with the essential dearth of honor - to achieve a beautiful correspondences, but there's no return once one accompanies a debauched heart: sin containing humanity for an eternity of unscrupulous conduct. Their alluring features are decremented, rendered profane and vulgar in embodiment by the uncouth manipulation of Torquemada's compulsion. His supersession of their elegance - modulating it to assuage his rancorous ardency, ironically such to his standard of love - is the work of an artisan whose perfection is within reduction.

    Their eyes - telling me of their fear - were sublime in expression of a transparent extension to the unfathomable. Appreciation is - I repeat - not understanding. I'll butcher all angels to affix myself to their bloodied elevation in a brutal rising up to confront a dictator. Saints slain for an exchange of their status as moral representatives; evoking admiration in I, an unforeseen arrival, as a substitute Saint: ironically deceiving all in noble words. At the command of an unknown, I dyed their dresses in blood.

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