I've got 212 words of "From the Gods" done and I'm not sure if I should scrap it and start over or what. It's under the cut. I'll try to get another paragraph done, but this is taking forever and I don't know if I'll ever get it done.
The change, when it came, was both subtle and sudden. He had been prepared for the obvious little things, empty rebellious gestures that had made so much sense (indeed, that he had almost been compelled to perform) when he was That Age. Door-slamming, glowering looks, spontaneous declarations of disgust for the obsolete beings that were his parents. Unsuitable friends displayed like trophies during dinner or in the small hours of the morning, invaders timidly tolerated by the confused and frightened adults he so despised.
He had been so certain then that the changes within his whirling mind and aching body mirrored the violent metamorphosis taking place in society, a perfect microcosm of the upheaval that characterized every aspect of waking life. External forces, a cultural maelstrom transforming everything it touched into an agent of its own propagation. It would have been presumptuous to think that the meek and dutiful adolescent he had been before was in any way a catalyst that was the province of the defiant superhuman rebels he strove to emulate. He was but one tiny cell of the nebulous revolution, a grateful and devoted agent of change, a mundane middle-class animal exalting in the freedom he had believed to be conferred upon him by the spirit of the times.