“Those rats with wings can stay a million miles away from me. It’s bad enough that I have to work with one of them on occasion. This one kid called Azrael, who’s the Archangel of Death. I honestly just want to strangle him because of how much he constantly annoys me.”
That is the world, my friend, agony, agony.
The dead decompose themselves under the clock of the cities.
War enters weeping, with a million gray rats.
The rich give to their girlfriends
A million illuminated dyings.
And life is not noble, or good, or sacred.