“Is that the best you can do?!” we seem to cry, scornfully, as we hurtle our home-made thunderbolts heavenwards. “Drop your colourless lightning!” we laugh, “Behold our blooming roses of fire!”
A violent symphony explodes above our heads, as though we sought to obliterate the etherial sky-palaces of the gods; as we did the clouds before them.
Half bemused by our impudence, Zeus, Thor and Set look down upon us, smirking maliciously as they weave the threads of our year to come; knotting it with miseries and divine retribution.
In the streets, we sing and dance our hubris into the dawn.