The man in the white house sits, naked and obscene, a pustule of ego, in the harsh light, a man whose grasp exceeded his understanding, because his understanding was dulled by indulgence.
He must know somewhere below the surface he skates on that he has destroyed his image, and like Dorian Gray before him, will be devoured by his own corrosion in due time too.
One way or another this will kill him, though he may drag down millions with him.
One way or another, he knows he has stepped off a cliff, pronounced himself king of the air, and is in freefall.
Another dungheap awaits his landing; the dung is all his; when he plunges into it he will be, at last, a self-made man.