Marcellocameo

Quietly the man sat in a tattered grey tunic and trousers, his legs crossed under him as he leaned against the dark stone wall of the room; it was dark and musty this far into the cave where he had taken residence and made a small home. Under him was a straw mat that he used for his bed. A few yards ahead of him was a low built wooden table; a small lantern on the table cast everything in an orange light. Further in the house, on the opposite wall, was a long box sealed with many chains and locks. It leaned against the side of his wooden pantry. Standing slowly his limbs stiff and gnarled after all these years, he made his way to the wooden d

In a world filled with false hope and dark shadows, the hospitals' corridors are always filled, its rooms filled with the suicides the emergency rooms filled with shot down angels. At the end of every bed is a dark angel, tightening a patient's tourniquet, slowly draining their life. So the patients cry for their salvation only to receive damnation. Their falling cries making a melody like none before, befitting the darkness of the hospital's halls. So as they flat-line, the shrill tenor notes sound, rising in pitch to crack the windows while the doctors race the corridors yelling instructions, calling "clear!" just to find themselves calling