body for body, soul to soul
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His days were punctuated by a quiet, incessant static. A buzzing akin to that of flies, drawn to the rotten and decaying scent of all that we discard and watch fade. The day tasted bitter and long. The sun beat against his flesh, scorching and its light unforgiving as it illuminated even the smallest of sins. He let wine coat his tongue, a bitter reminder of his reality. Of his flesh, rotting in the afternoon sun. Of the buzzing, a gentle reminder and promise by the flies that he was dying. But heaven did not await him. He should have known that by now. The Devil was real. And he wasn't a red man with horns and a tail. He was beautiful because he's a fallen angel, and he used to be God's favourite.
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- Part 2 of body for body, soul to soul