accelerants bead across the walls like morning dew, soaking into the tattered wallpaper, the faded flowers begin to drip to the floor

a spark, a flash, suddenly the room is on fire

as the world, his world, burns to the ground around him

he sits and writes of days gone by

timbers fall, crash through the table, unseen, unfelt flames lick the edges of consciousness

accidental arson, intent on feeding the flickering fires, giving shape to that within by draining the air from without

sitting in the iris of the inferno, one eye on the etchings in the ash

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