The sky glints off of bone white eyes. Two will o' the wisps bouncing around and blinking in and out of existence in the darkness. The burnman offers little refuge and more refusals as he arcs the black knife of his hand to demonstrate a readily apparent downfall. He prognosticates through burned up nerve endings. He weaves his thoughts like smoke furrowing over glaciers.
What is truly sad is the fact that most pay no heed to this living sacrifice's auguries. Most walk on, having smelled his death scent, his enveloping pressure of fear.
For those that stop to listen, to learn, many things are revealed.
All undeniable truths are always found balanced on the top of a single match head.
The burnman offers those who stop an entire box filled with combustible intent.
And he expects those who have heard to realize why he wants them to use these prophecies.
These blackened matches.
Obtained through beautiful destruction and wondrous pain.
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