King Midas once starved to death because everything he touched turned into gold.
Strange story.
I touch walls. Never wonder whether they might change one day. Never even imagine it.
I’ve etched hard rules about what’s possible in my life. Walls don’t change for me.
But I like the sentiment: King Midas perpetually unfulfilled.
Man is the same. Wicked splendor everywhere he goes.
None of it fulfilling! All the wisdom, pleasure, and food in this world! Empty, bitter glass in the other. Cold, cold grave.
His kingdom of gold for a shot at blood and risk. The real.
King Midas with the alchemical touch. I like that.
A pesky virus comes to mind.
“Corona”.
Latin for “crown”.
Very fitting.
Men touch walls, spreading their alchemic “gold” all across the planet.
A thousand King Midas’s resurrected. Made to feast on their wicked gold.
Wow!