Fire if she gets closer. Fire if she leaves. Fire if she does anything. When she stands still the world stands still. I want to see the lines that appear when she smiles, and hear her laugh again. I do not want to see these truths reflected back at me in her eyes when her gaze stabs like a dagger through wounds left long open. She is neither the first nor the last. This is my solace and my curse.
These burning irons bind me to fall like the rest of them, yet the warm glow dances gently into the end. Aiming for the stars, my path is disturbed by the colorful horizon in the sunset of a promethian dream. To become one with wires I might find my freedom again, but that cannot be reached. To stare unwillingly at a glass that cannot be filled rather than question the ever expanding unexplainable nothingness, but which is better? I am tempted by the light that begins to glow brighter for the moment rather than dim, even in its cyclical dulling of wits there might be something that flows more elegantly than time. And what of Atthis?