Oh those angels of my past and my past paragraphs were mine, all mine and not the angels that you’re thinking of, or prob’ly not. No. Prob’ly not your angels. They were mine, are mine, my demon angels then of dread and death, depression and desire and despair and disrepair and on and on.
As an angel is an arm of Yah, so these my limbs, extensions, libels, liberations, limitations, lusts and fears and injuries and flaws and again it’s mea culpa time. Mea mea mea. Culpa culpa culpa. That’s my maximum, Mac. My maximum maxima culpa. Or it isn’t. But I’ll end this anyway with Azrael be damned, I guess. Or Azrael, my ass.