Literature
Angel Who Isn't
The man in the bed was having a nightmare.
And this concerned him.
Him, a phantom of flesh-and-blood, who stood in the darkest corner of the room and watched. He was good at that: watching.
And so, he watched.
The man in the bed was having a nightmare.
And this concerned him.
He watched the sleeping man. He saw the beads of sweat form quickly on his face and tumble down his temples, soaking the pillow beneath his head. He noticed the brow, creased in worry and terror of images only he could be privy to. He regarded the tossing and turning of his body under the covers, fists clenching and unclenching tensely in anxiety. He noted the garb