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Apollo

I always said I liked it flashy. God of the sun? Now that's flashy. Racing that golden chariot — in the winter I drive a Lambo to get by quicker — across the sky, careening down over the horizon and exploding in a million reds and yellows and other colors that not even the greatest songwriter, not even me, could find the name for? That's my life. Do it every day, except in Alaska.

I am the god of ice-cold truth and burning solar fire, the life of healing and the death of plague. I'm the god of absolute sensory overload and so much sheer excitement, that pure joie de vivre you mortals — I've always loved you mortals — are so obsessed with finding, you can hardly stand it. But you want more. You know you want more, and more, like a moth to flame, until it burns you through with wild sunstruck epiphany.