These days tumble and blaze. I conceive a new dream every hour, lift each one to the sky with naive hands, and stand perplexed while they crash as quickly as they were born. Do they die because I voice them too soon? Do I thrust them too high? I ought to learn my lessons; when I was a child Icarus warned me of the wax in the wings.
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In Which I Return to Irish Dance (Not to be Confused with Clogging)
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