Pool_1

It was morning, and it felt special. There was that aura of impending greatness. Is there a word - something like de'ja' vu, but for the feeling of a moment never experienced before but somehow certainly never to be equaled again? How do you say, in French, a snow ball's chance in hell - vu? Something like that. It was there. That melting snow moment. The morning crew rejoiced "RUM BANANA - A ROOKIE? Whoa, the next Sloan Eberhart! Go get'em." This was a great time for mankind, for melting snow balls. It felt heroic. A morning sun, still unseen, forewarned its imminent coming in rising spikes, brightness piercing the blackness of the cape of Nyx, god of the night. Approaching trumpets of light heralded Apollo's blazing chariot crafted of Vulcan's art, terrible in its dimension, miraculous in it's power, and divine in it's inspiration of men. The fire of life, the sun! It hurdled the horizon of the mortal industrial roofs and water towers, like a Pythian athlete, as its flame lit upon the streets and burned through windows of buildings. In this glare was the next man hero, the next Sloan Eberhart, successor to Phaeton confirming his own paternal lineage, mounting his own chariot of Phoebus, laden of fire ice, crushing the shifting wheel reins of the Piper chariot in a willful fist with a face of equal resolution fixed outward, toward his own Zodiac, out there, outside the Piper garage. A passage to the heavens, through Piper gates to the twirling universe beyond, the early morning highway deserted by all but an appealing father of sunlight who, without recourse, lit the way. From the driveway path, in this light of Dawn, strewn of roses, to the thoroughfare outside the gates, a hard right turn, straight into the oncoming flash of that morning sun.. no axle of gold, nor spokes of silver, but on a solitary seat of simulated rich Corinthian leather - DISMOUNTED - run amok - the Piper seat of fury