He lights a match, holds it, lets it burn.
It is a consummation, he says. The wood is fuel, swollen with promise. The chemicals on the tip are nothing but a combustion in potentia, the lightest, faintest shove away from an orgy of wanton electron exchange.
He flicks the spent splinter away, gnarled and blackened. He lights another.
Every flame is unique, he says. Is it better to live in a watertight box, nestled among sleeping siblings, or to burn in furious, idiosyncratic glory, however brief?
Everything wants so badly to happen, he says, and his eyes flash as he smiles.
The Paradox Of Tarleton’s Pebble
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