Sometimes, when inspiration just won't come, I light myself on fire. I begin with some sort of quick-burning starting agent. Alcohol works well and adds a Bohemian and hedonistic tone to the revelry. When I'm doused I take a wooden match - an assortment of which I always have near at hand thanks to my penchant for phillumeny -and clench it between my front teeth, the match head pointing outward just under the tip of my nose. Then, taking care not to scrape the aforementioned tip of my nose, I close my eyes and quickly swish the striking surface of an empty match box against the head. The conflagration is rapid and glorious. The heat is immediately intense. The smell of phosphorous and booze and burning fabric intoxicates me and the air sears my nose and mouth and lungs as I breath the fire in. Soon my hair and clothing are gone and my skin is agonizing as it spits and bubbles and withers. That's when I scream. I always try to scream louder and longer than the time before, roaring fire from my dying lungs as my frail body fails and I crumble the ground. So quickly I am consumed, smoldering to nothing but ash. Then I am blown away by the wind, scattered in too many directions, hopeless to ever find all of myself and come together again, never to be whole. Then I am gone.
When I open my eyes, I begin to write.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
