It is the brush that still grows and slowly dies from the hazel string of fire. Like a violin, it fills the entire room with electrity red-hot, oxygen making it grow stronger and stronger. Until a burst of thunder claps for an encore. It must seem to not seem like that ream of paper, lying on the carpet, blank and waiting for a soul to touch it with his fingers and poke it with a pencil, and then, again and again. Until he meets himself in the middle, and cries out Halleluia! It's over, the flames disappearing behind the curtain.