I could not tell you what it is that I lack. A permissible virtue is a phrase I’d rather adopt than bother to learn. To an extent, it could just be laziness. Caving to the effort, not wanting to put in the time. I dream to flutter in the air with my parent’s handcrafted wings. As I float, guilt consumes. A spoiled little brat, I surely am when riding on the backs of those who I damn. By the direction of the wind and tightness of my chest, I’ll desperately swirl to wherever I am not. I cry for a hand that I battered away only moments ago. I feverishly beg to twirl as I plunge like the colorful lifeless leaves that I watch from my four-pointed fabric-covered metal box. I’m looking to the stars in need of help, but I at least know now that they burn bright no matter the time of day. It’s all just a silly wheel I turn as I try to reinvent.