Where but for the Sake of Phaedrus

If the wings with which our souls took flight were fitted directly to our bodies, our flesh, how much more like soaring, then, this flight!

Would that our ambulations weren’t the will-against-will lurching and halting they inescapably are; constant in changing their course, self-opposed with no apparent destination. Reins firmly grasped–white-knuckled; but an erratic response is the best one can hope for.

This I know: if I’m to go nowhere in particular, I should prefer to fly with lesser urgency, with singularity of will. Whether the coverts surface naturally, through my skin, to tame the turbulence I’ve heretofore known, or whether they be fashioned for me (waxen, ill-fated) and gifted by my father I cannot bring myself to care. They are for flight! They are for FLIGHT!

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