I fear there is a time the words will flow no more.
How much longer will the halcyon last? Bits of their world are spilling into ours. Pouring, really. Maybe I'm just too sensitive to it all, as the masses wander blind around me. I feel the energy coursing through me, see the spirit-sparks alighting on the air. Michael's royal blue, Raphael's gold, Samael's horrible red, and the white lights of the angels. Or, perhaps, the dead. I know not what they really are.
How does it all fit together? Is there really an End of Days? Do gods walk among men? Or is it all just the imagining of tender souls, packaged and dispensed for consumption by the masses? How many people standing in the church Sunday morning have actually ever felt the presence of God?
