New Writing:

Ghosts stand in line, waiting to pass through the dimly lit room. They carry their secret names across their foreheads, so that angels will know them, and judge them. Drums, cymbals, and trumpets - all within the angels broken hands and fingers - stretch out a constant crash of discordant noise. It never lets up, it's never meant to. As the ghost line never falters in its slow shuffle, then nor does the music of angels, nor the calling of names, nor the passive dismissal of those angels, of lives lived and lost.