7.10.10

fingers pointing at a gilded sun.

that sense of release resembled a construct, a postmodern icarus. 
how dare you find your freedom soaring through sunrays! 
a synapse in the false logic of eathbound restriction. 
new and improved, wingspan handcrafted from the finest dreams. 
apathy and sympathy can't melt these. 
without their waxing i'd always known i'd find a way...





love and lights,
kafka