Note: This is a (philosophical) poem

He sat in the silent house with a gray
Expression of colorless eyes. Peeking 
In was the predictable, yellow ray
Of light through the window. The Myth says that
above the clouds the sunlight is a great,
Superb blue state. 
O how glorious it must be, in view!
With impulses he did not understand, 
He darted out the house, resisting the 
Cold Winds of the mountains. Into the odd
Mysterious machine he stood and he
Rotated the wheel with vigor and rose
Up in the air. With time, a brown feeling
Bore upon his forearm to slow him down.
He neared the clouds, the sight of them tiring
Him. Defying the now red pain, he pierced 
The tuffs of white cotton.
You see the color of the sunlight. Understanding
and familiarity rushes through as you bathe in the 
gold color. 'I saw this on the ground too', you think.

The difference is now your arm is fatigued. 

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