Cephalic Angels

Unorchestrated pain I find an irreverent disinterest in. But then if all pain was reverent to me I would not be Atypical, now would I? I am painfully predictable in my unpredictability.

One of these pains I make no obedience to is a particularly cephalic one. It starts somewhere in the inner workings of my brain and works its way out in slowly widening circles of hellish glacial encroaching. White hot talons of excruciatingly numbing waves break upon the shores of my patience eating away at the core of what is left of my humanity until I am adrift in the sheltered harbor of visions and nightmares. And if you understand that, then I know you've been there.

During these times I am rather convinced I can hear angels sing. Which really sucks ass because I actually do not believe in them. Or any other celestial beings created to bring about our adherence to the moral majority's current theme of behavioral management. If their voices were not so beautiful I just might not listen.

But they are. And I do. And perhaps that is why I have this thing for winged creatures. I savor them. I collect them. I create them. I listen to them. I worship them. Dare I say I feel for them. At least I would like to.