for the french man in the white car:
what is it like, mon cher, to be set ablaze in hydrogen gold and to be shone upon by heaven's light? under the admiring eye of crowds which refuse to utter your name,
for fear of cementing the reality of your existence, do the flames which kiss your skin burn your fingers at the alter with the pleads of your prayers?
does the clay which sculpted you set in your capacity for divinity,
or does it slip so quickly through your fingers like mud from the bottom of the river, like the mortality you've lost sight of as you've grown accustomed to only chasing Gods (they are everything you've ever wished to be).
Over and over again, the story of Icarus had come with a warning "don't fly too close to the sun", but dear kindness, what ever will you do now that you've bested Helios and Apollo and Ra, and are tethered to the white hot chains of expectation?
