I am infernal. I want to burn with the speed of a thousand galloping horses hot from the friction of their machinery. I want to overheat. Silently. I want be instantaneous. I want to flash into a state of pure heat. I want to breath fire and exhale the blackest ash of a thousand Krakatoa’s trapped in the furnace of Hell. I. want. fire. I want to strain against this inferno held at bay by sheer rage boiling up and out of my leaden veins like hot oil. I want to absorb it. I want it gone. Take it away from me, will you? If only an angel could save me from this burden. Why do bad things happen to good people? Because there are no bad people left in this world full of good people. And so we fester stirring stirring in a constant state of singeing pain strained against every fibre of our being looking for a reason to run. Run run run! Punch the ground with pounding stomps. Light up the Earth with a streak of light. Ride the scar, until dusk gives way to night.