No matter which window I look out of, the world is still on fire. Upstairs, Downstairs, gleaming with the orange-gold of indiscriminate destruction. When I was young, I thought the framed oil paintings were real, and enjoyed the pleasant, static serenity- but one day, I noticed a shadow glance across the edges of the curtains, and when I parted them, the glass was aflame. Every bay, every aperture, glowing hot and chaotic, apathetic to my plight. I scoured the halls, reached high on the basement walls, searched the attic, but every window framed the same vision- a fatal inferno. It wasn't until I caught fire myself that I realized- the world is not on fire. My house is.