NEW WRITING:

His shirt was askew - buttoned up wrong, his socked feet stank, and his underwear was saggy and grey. He breathed out empty space. He rocked gently forward and back - comfort, habit, storyline? He couldn't tell, it didn't matter. He pushed his long naked legs out in front of him. He sat on the bed staring uncritically, vacantly at his battered shins, his prominent knee caps, his skinny hairless thighs. Then his visions started. He sighed inwardly and let them develop - he couldn't stop them - he'd tried. He saw visions, angels crawling up his legs. Tiny angels with stupid limp and battered wings, making their way across his ankles, creeping their way up his thighs. He tried to brush them off - even though he knew it was always useless. They stayed put, like they always did. Grey leather, pock-marked wings and beaming faces, singing their chants and incantations along the way, always looking up at him like some crazy prophecy: "Damn those fucking pious angels" - he mumbled to himself: "Creeping their happy shit all over me". He kicked his legs wildly, but those angels just hung onto him, like they knew they could, like they knew they should - angelic ticks, out for a soulful fix: "Damn those fucking choirs of angels".