What if Daedalus was not the daredevil we imagine?  Sure, he was puffed up with cocksure hubris and overweening pride.  Not to deny somewhere in his intention he was stunting or reckless or flying at speeds.  Naturally, for his fatal conceit, the heat of the sun melted the wax on his wings.  Perhaps some invisible solar storm even singed his eyelashes and fringe, like an infernal Chicago tenement gas oven, carbonizing what was left of his angel hair to the point of ash.  Likely, by understandable instinct, he smudged his forehead and cheek with the facts he burned.  Certainly, he pitied himself as he wiped the sweat from his brow and wrung the tears from his eyes by squeezing them tight.  After all, pride must suffer pain, so WASPish mothers tell us at Sunday School.  But was he really so bad, or was there a light hidden under bushels of flaxen feathers?  Was he just being a good father, or mother maybe, holding his beloved tight to his bosom...