When I was wee, in the middle of the summer, the big field behind the shops would be filled with dry grass and I'd get a box of matches. You chuck one match on that and the whole thing goes up in flames. Twitter's a bit like that. You can just say one thing and it explodes from there.
That night it felt that somehow by flicking them off the roof, the matches would burn down everything, the sparks from the tips of the flames, torching the world and all the heartbroken people in it.
I am as frustrated with society as a pyromaniac in a petrified forest.
I am burning. If anyone lacks tinder, let him set his rubbish ablaze with my fire.
Arson is a respected profession among certain subcultures in Jersey, and the good ones don't get caught. The good ones channel lightning and mysterious acts of spontaneous combustion.
I'd like to be able to light the fire a little bit.
I love technology. Matches, to light a fire, is really high tech. The wheel is really one of the great inventions of all time. Other than that, I am an ignoramus about technology.
She lights a match in the dark hall and moves it onto the wick of the candle. Light lifts itself onto her shoulders. She is on her knees. She puts her hands on her thighs and breathes in the smell of the sulphur. She imagines she slap breathes in light.
