There is that fire, burning with alacrity. Quick!
It will consume.
The cabin, not far from the cliff, but over it a freedom of water, roils below.
Do you jump?
I built this place with mine own hands. I watch it burn.
All the food I eat, it has grown beneath my feet. The flesh I consume, wrought with mine own hands. Burned also, but in a smaller fire.
That smaller fire has kept me warm. Offered me safety within mine own abode. There am I, again, in this cabin, in this wood, near this cliff, above this water.
It is my piece. It is my peace.
My solitude begins there.
My solitude. It ends there.
I am wont to return, though it is only in my own mind.
There is fiction. There is life. What is the difference?
All rights reserved. No part of this website may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by and information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission from the author.