I know it’s sacrilegious to worship molten idols; but at the corner of Clark and Dearborn, there’s my namesake— Nike, freshly dipped in a layer of gold. It stands on a pedestal inside the lobby of an office building, wings outstretched, a perpetual wind blowing through her gown in a song that never grows old. It is the song of Victory, the song that keeps my heart beating; in this battle against Reality’s minions, the daily grind of a soul whose destiny will soon unfold.
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