When angels cry it's because of some injustice uncorrected and they sit there wingless, concrete, waiting. Blink their lidless eyes with moon up, sundown. Sleepless nights haunt them with the spirits of unrest and the prospects of the least productive workday every morning of their life. The wheels of private social tanks pushes the gears and price of gas isn't an issue when you walk on future's grave. When angels fly they rarely hit the polluted sky. They travel numbers like lottery. Nobody walks in LA due to a long ago plan to keep its citizens legless, separated and slaves to industry. Fortresses for the fortunate, mazes for the empty to shop for purpose, prison walls built around the blocks of "problems". Yet beneath the mattresses of comfort lie the peas, and injustice keeps the murmurs coming from the haunted unbuilt basements. When angels hadn't enough to eat and... the police sweep humans off the streets. When what you see through your TV is missing color. And the wonder years were a fabricated memory. the fury that has been buried under piles and piles of years rises to the front. The bed's been made, the rest is yet to come.