February 20, 2007
I saw a dead angel once. It looked like he had been dead for a long time; his skin was a pallid gray, but darker where blood settled. But how long he had been gone doesnít matter, dead is dead. His wings were tattered and torn, but thatís not what killed him. His chest was ripped opened and his heart torn out, that gory mass still clutched tight in his hands. Why would an angel tear his own heart out? As I leaned over to close those empty eyes, I knew... you canít exist solely on the love of another.