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 The sound of angels screaming, ever present and lasting
 between thousands of frequencies.   Like jarred ringing in
 ears  or  maybe  a  HUM       that  never  come  to  cease.
 He could hear it all, the CRIES of his kind,          to sound
                hauntingly where man could not dream.

                              And it was his fault too.

   It was a daunting feeling within. A kind of agony to stun
 those  who  possessed  the  heart  to  feel and  grieve  the
 loss  and  with  a kind  of  misery  bound  to  run  between
          veins    where    constellations    are    buried.

                They come down screaming, bleeding.
 Defeated by family. And no one to save them. GUILT–—–
    crippling with the knowledge it was the own work, the
  cause.  The  fight for the righteous to wreak  chaos  on
              celestial levels and that to such degrees.

          unimpressive, insignificant by the looks with
      place on a simple bench of wood he sat, listening, 

                                               –—– always listening.