"The angels come too late, feathers crawling with mites and eyes flat as snakes. The smell of ozone lingers in their skin, and glory glory glory sounds like a punchline. They promise alters and arks, the hollow earth, the ascending light. You will be gold, and gold again. You are not surprised when their throats are torn open, revealed to be hollow."

ACT ONE
The Keepers of Immorality.

2019 Ⓒ SOULATIRE