On certain nights under fading streetlights in the silence I've heard angels whispering dirty words. In the playgrounds at dark, etched in the bark on beech trees they wrote lovers' timid notes. On the TV at night by the flickering light there are shadows I've seen, patterns layered beneath the screen. I've seen the ending to stories like these and they're not as pretty as we're led to believe.
It was with a shaking hand I carefully wrote my last note.
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