This is why, when sitting amongst the rising milk of Humility, I pine for the clotted cream of Choice.
Is it better to reach, or to be the standard to be reached for?
Even gods fall.
And when they are found, swimming in their respective bottles, remember that stars gelatinize like everything else upon the luge of the body, waiting to be expelled as congealed orange juice or sour curd.
I hover, mid-way to the lip of the pitcher. I dare go no higher.