“That blue,” he said again and again, finger pointed at the dingy hospital wall. His body trembled as if he lay on a “magic fingers” bed on high—on the derangement setting. Yet, later, he sang softly, and so sanely, we hoped he was coming around “And I was feathered— he screamed. And I flew” They found him walking on the railroad tracks twelve days ago. He was clutching what was left of his Gibson twelve string. He said his name was Icarus. God knows what he had dropped. The docs didn’t. They waited two weeks, then warehoused him for the long term. His parents had means— so it wasn’t a bad place. For a while, we’d go to visit. But, he would just stare at the sky as if it held an invitation— a summons to the day he had flown so high he had almost touched the sun.