I built myself a pair of wings out of wax and feathers and wood. I know what you're thinking but my wings are good. I flew around the world. Saw it all. They did not falter.

Now I'm flying up, through the nothing, into the absolute something, to the source of all of this. Into the density until my eyes are useless, until I feel the original fire in the marrow of my bones. (I will know the marrow of my bones!) I believe I will not melt. I believe the shining can only chorus the winged glory of my soul.