The angel was decidedly shabby, and not a bit disreputable. His, its wings were hanging limp and grey beside it, and it appeared to be panting for breathe.

Mark stared for a good while, not least because of the novelty of the celestial being, but also the inconsistency of it. It had just appeared, and had not moved in five minutes except for the heaving breaths it seemed so desperate to get . All considered it looked as if it had traveled a very long distance, and was much worse the wear for it.

It said, with a voice lacking in any distinguishing timbre,

"Mark Johnson?"

"yes"

Mark Johnson was, indeed his name.

Yes, he did want to get the hell of this earth.

No, he didn't understand what that really meant, but by God he didn't care.

The angel adjusted its wings and cleared its throat, adjusted its wings again, and then with something resembling the grandiosity usually associated with its office said,

"Mark Robert Johnson?"

He nodded franticly and reached out, hoping that his hands would reach something tangible.

The angel sighed and rustled his wings, sprinkling a fine dust on the sterile floor.

"Right, I'll be seeing you soon"

With that said the being floated up, and Mark lunged at its rapidly disappearing feet.

It was the fifth time this week, and the nurses were getting tired of stitching up his head, but for $50.00 an hour, they weren't arguing.

Another day at clear creek asylum.