Parade – Scott Litts

Even then, even now I am constantly thinking of them— innumerable souls, it’s said, and reprehensibly neutral angels, but I don’t want to hear about angels anymore— gnashing their teeth, placeless and howling at everything in particular, clawing at the gates of hell, having been locked out for refusing the world, their lives, and themselves of each other. They are the ones, there, with words rotting inside them. Now I want you to think of things that hulk with themselvesness,