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Icarus dreams of decomposition. Melted wax. Eroded silt. A tender kind of decay. Brain waves plunge to the bottom of the sea, recalling a corpse once churned to mush. Breaching the line dividing man and god delivers a fatal price to pay, but even those defying natural law deserve a second chance to learn from their mistakes.
 

Icarus remembers a humbling fate. Strip him of his hubris, his limbs, his face. He will emerge an invertebrate. Worms reside amongst the lowest of mortals, a pitiful existence, just short of pulp. Within the earth, Icarus digs labyrinths. Mistakes moles as minotaurs. Stretches blindly for warmth.
 

When raindrops drench dirt, his soul flexes with a muscle memory urge: upward ascent. Yes, Icarus must wriggle toward the heavens. Escape soil’s congestion. Kiss the humid breeze. Tread heights never traveled by worms before him. Without wings or warning from Daedalus, Icarus assumes there is nothing to lose.    
 

Even reduced to a spineless tube, his swollen ego ventures too close to the sun. Stranded on the island of Concrete, Icarus shrivels to a crisp among cigarette butts. Disintegrates to dust. Succumbs to the rules of the universe, once again proving that fools who squirm past their limit will be stripped of their dignity.