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Since what Sunday can remember as being the beginning, under the protective wings of a strange but yet.. kind? voiced halovian, the days have been passing by orderly, orderly but only in Sundays way. Under all those layers of pristinely clean, elegant, neat and very well tailored both clothes and personality, is a figure rather unwilling of the life he’d live tomorrow, often found in the comfort of a dream he made and shared with others, staring, back turned at the mirror with what is left of his wings in sight, uneven, ugly and most importantly, just like hair does, they hold memories he’d rather discard somewhere far, far away.

