Tell me how you want to live beyond your means. Tell me how great it would be if my imagination somehow took hold and magnetized to all those who could help. My streaking bolt of justice seems more like a mistaken blot on a page printed — a smudge from a printing error. Walk me through the steps of failure and I will ask repeatedly of one thing: when will my genius be recognized and flown over the towering cities? I will wonder where my help went and you, simply you, will look into my eyes, beyond me, and shrug your shoulders softly, as to not be harsh, as to be gentle on my soul. How could Icarus fall so fast? Would he not have fallen faster without a little help? Think of it that way.