Hidden under canvas, I strike a match. The darkness becomes warm, and the shadows dance as I cup my hands over the little flame. Lowering the burning tapper toward the blackened wick, I light my little, tin lamp, extinguishing the match with a puff before its hot tongue bites at my fingers. I stare into the small, trembling fire, my mind seduced by the distant, beating rain; all consciousness leaves me as I gaze steadily into the flaming wick, dissipating in the storm’s serenade. Time becomes as nothing as I melt away into everything, and death and life are forgotten.
The Way of the Dead Gods
Tale Told 