#(idk if this is even the most coherent cuz i keep reworking the imagery in my head and had to stop myself from typing an whole novel lmao)

[godzexperiment]

Humans with their eyes fixated on marble, white wings and crystal clear water. Angels as perfect beings, soft edges and forgoing that angels were beings just like them. Yielded as weapons, messengers of course and so vastly capable of more than just white. Could scrub at the stains, look away from the neon smears pouring out of the celestial but light can't exist on it's own. The waterfall full of color, toxic paint that splashed all over the marble tiles. Stains that never went away, marks that only grew more murky or brighter. Harmless pigment, or toxic paint depending on the day dripping everywhere. Often he wonder about just sticking his hands into the falling water. If the colors get everywhere, then maybe it could become even more artful. And if he reduced it to dust; perhaps the silver-red gashes could fade away. Hands constantly an color filled blur, his form comprised of neon smears and dark trailing droplets. But was it his own, or another- other's. Did it even matter all that much. If it stained and poisoned better him than somebody else. Take the lead out so the runoff was lesser. Bits of crushed up stained glass underneath his feet. Always there since day one reflecting blinding light that become the absence of it kept firmly against the ground. Technicolor wings drawn with finger tips onto spaces on the floor. From the dark droplets that mixed with the neon from his physical form. And it was an mindless art that felt authentically his own. Seemed out of focus but the most solid artwork he could be certain of.