unused.

      Angels, angels and demons.  They mock me.  I am the in-between, the unused, the neglected, like torn fringe on a petticoat.  But they do use me.  I am the secret hiding place.  For meetings in the dark, for lovers in their shameful visits with... They use me.  Imperfection after imperfection I harbor.

      This is well.  I am imperfection.  We will blend

well.  Together we make up a constant denial of the ideal, the perfection.  We loathe it.  We loathe the mediums of glamour and brightly shining, shining, shining...... perfection.  Get it away from us.  Burn.  

Quietly.

      Anger?  We have it not.  Guilt?  We have it not.  We do not live in this place.  We are this place, and the imperfection permeates it, but not us.  I.  Burn.

Us.

      Mercy, let us drink.