I am configured for conflagration. Dry. Sticks. Crumbled, stacked by size. Breezes flow through me. Verbs ignore their other duties, prepared to burn. Sparks sparkle without regard for effect. And so preparation is my cause. I pause at this precipice. For going up is a cliff, whether chemically or gravitationally, my physic admits that future will scrawl myself on the sky. Depersonalized in a minute, like death. From coherent to inevident. Prefixes defiled, suffixed, ashen. Given a blue day, smoke can sting eyes with both tears and awareness. What a way I'll go.
Roman Ryan 