To live in a world full of twisted delusions and false, prophetic angels; to wait on the whim of a God gone mad.
This is reality now.

There are great discrepancies, of course. Some of the people here don't even know that they're damned, and many of the rest of them don't seem to care. But at night, when the red-blood skies bleed to black, there are sounds outside, out there in the dark and in the open, that would break your heart if you let them.

So he doesn't let them.

Even down in the hostile emptiness of the tower, even as the stench of blood and flesh and rotting tears presses its hands over his mouth and smothers him back into blackness, he refuses to let the sounds seep through into the hostile emptiness of his own mind.

He doesn't know the sin he's committed but he knows the illusion he clings to. Because somewhere under the mask of subconsciousness and the sheer need to survive, he believes, somehow, that he will survive, and that the world will be miraculously more beautiful on the other side. Until then, though, he goes on praying to a deity who has long-since stopped believing in him, trying to find the will to keep on going in a reality too harsh for the rational to handle.
Until then he lives in a world full of twisted delusions and false, prophetic angels, and he waits on the whim of a God gone mad.

This is reality now.