Man starts dreaming— greedy dreaming. He begins to burn a different kind of fire.
His heart like an ember can be fiery and fervent can burn a silhouette a shadow in love a ghost in grief all in his deep shades of crimson blue.
Here he is here he's been here he will be burning memories– photographs and things in pages curling into black the stench of obliviun is one with the smoke that is how he builds a different kind of fire.
Plunged his hand it shines in his very eyes dancing gracefully like a wild gloriosa rustled by the winds restlessly, like a scarlet swan in a lake of stonecold ashes, as if the only thing at peace in a holocaust of memories. Then stares back before it sways back into being the ordinary flame it was.
If he would listen the fire has a pulse a flicker beat almost like his.
The flame did not burn him as if it has always been a part from within as if he was made out of it as if it was made out of him.
He felt the soul of the fire. It's pulse—
felt like home.
Pyromania: the obsessive desire to set fire to things