My week: Bono
Monday: "Taxi for Paul Hewson!" The driver stares at me expectantly, but I don't know who this guy is that he's calling for.
Years ago, I knew someone by that name, but he no longer exists. The caterpillar of his consciousness opened up and became a butterfly. Wow, you should've seen it. He flew away, skyward, cloud bound, you see things more clearly up here. Sometimes you rise too close to the sun, like Icarus, and your wings melt, you fall, but that's the thrill. The only ones who never crash are those who never take flight.
"Look, mate, do you want this ruddy cab or not?"