Notes: Inspired greatly by a particular scene in Glühen, where just before they all head out for a certain mission, we are shown how each guy in Weiss prepares. And the image of Ken kneeling in front of his window and bed refused to leave. Subsequent to that, I came across the transcripts for 'the Dramatic Album 'The Holy Children', among others. You might as well want to check these before reading the following work, although it is not quite necessary.
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Oh, and I don't have a soul to save
Yes and I sin every single day
We never change do we
We never learn do we
We never change, by Coldplay.
Magnificat anima mea Pacem.
Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua sicut in caelo, et in terra.
Repent your sins. The old man would tell him. His words like a twine escaping the net of argent hair framing the time-marred flesh. And his eyes, in unison to grave, poise-decanted voice would reverberate within, tearing the tympanic membrane. He had never liked any of the priests in the church, excepting Sister. Her candid voice imprited in the labyrinths of his memoirs; every movement of the elder to which he had confused with juvenile-assumed gallantry and grace.
His infantile eyes would only look up from the ill-heralding words, discerning from the shadows of the candles and their wavering, reflecting the negritude against the windows; the sway of the textiles of the long robes and their uncanny colors of mauve and tawny, carmine and olive; paintings he understood as grotesque and grody, manifesting the tales of Saints, Apostles, Devils and Angels ears came to confirm conveyed by Gospels and Psalms; or just like the hymns and prayers he was forced to repeat over and over to atone or purge. He had always hated those paintings, the faces of the characters in them. They would express no emotion, except for the grieving ones that gripped the impaling weapons with whatever digits they could bring forth. Velvets of intrincated chromas, tints that his eyes had never seen, thus failed in the comparision with any forgotten memory he could harbor.
Slide in the glove. Click. Adjust. Move a finger. Perfect.
The air which the window exuded, whirling into a waltz the feeble veil of the drape agitated once with sudden discomfort, vibrated, then returned to its previous equanimity. Pearling sweat from the pores became evanescent with the ceremony of the wind and curtain. And at the same time, it was a refreshing hauling back to reality.
They taught him, nay imposed, what he was to do and not to. The frames and guideless an honest life should follow, reflecting that which was immoral, and only adept for the sinner. You shall not kill.
The other hand fell within the haven of the other bugnuck. Steel cut through the stillness of the atmosphere, vibrations lingering. And tailing behind came the siren of an ambulance or patrol, the origin he failed to recognized. The fusion of red and blue lights reflected vaguely against his wall, but the buzz lingered. Against the white wall, the profile of the youth sketched: trim lines cutting the darkness crafted the bridge of the slim nose, and just after that the protuding stripes the lips were.
Just not priests, Popes and Cardinals. Christ and John. Even Bartholomew. They instructed him with the cold view of things. Civics, throught the teachings of an elder life, the exponents of ethics joined their eternal opponent. Of how a man's freedom finished when other's started. Of how a crime was punished, regardless of the story behind it. Black was black and white was white. Once you stained your hands with blood, the smell and taste would not go away.
Especially not at night.
Especially if you enjoy it.
There is more to all of us than our aperances, or what a brittle smile may be smartly deceiving.
Its taste of iron had been something he dared never to forget. Repulsive, and yet seductive. Perhaps all according to the moral of civics, to the ethics of the philosophy and common sense of men. The man had laid with five fine opening on his stomach. The liver and lungs had collapsed the moment he pierced him through. For better or worse. Still, the corpse slightly convulsed haphazardly, though with eyes out of orbit. His mind had failed to keep close to reason of man's crime. Insignificant details, who dared to dwell upon them?
Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra, sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris.
The paintings upon the tapestry told of tales and vanquished evil; conquered quests regardeless of their spiritual or related origin. Each one of them, he remembered, had a weapon within their grasp. Their flesh sumberged in blood, and below the corpses. They were no murderers, the church priest would apologize in behalf of those who lived years before him. No explanation ensued. Not other than the repetion and playback of the Lord's will and praise.
Ten fingers within the concealment of the weapons, and symmetrically, one by one clenched.
Could a shattered faith bring itself to the adoration of just one deity? If so, which one? God gives us life. Introduce one of the arguments life ironically revolves around: with the gift of birth, he also gave us the opportunity of cease it. And... cease other lives, don the beautiful masquerade likes ages of old and whisk away lives that supposedly are vacant of justice. And what mask were we supposed to bear? God's? Or perhaps an angel? One of those armored ethereal beings the pictures encrypted struggling.
And yet, he was no angel, no devil, no Saint nor Apostle.
Et ne nos inducas in tentationem sed libera nos a malo.
It was time to leave. Everyone else was waiting. Time to leave the foolish thoughts to a side, and let them come to you once more the next time, just like the last time.
Amen.~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Magnificat anima mea Pacem ( My soul praises Peace) is a fragment of the song entitled "The Miracle", copyrighted to MonolithSoft.