Fred is an arsonist—and, Fred is not an arsonist. Let me explain: Fred has thought of fire, its power and grace, for a long time. Perhaps since he was a child. He often watched fires, mesmerized ... [+]
An on/off switch
Your last sensory memories
A nostalgic egg
Cracked
As the slimy yolk hovered on the scorching pan
The auditory pleasing
Sizzling
Popping-bubble-wrap-like sound
Or cracking oneself's knuckles
Sitting by the windowpane
Pitter patter
On the rooftop from the last night rain
The only view of sunset from afar
The colorful inflation of indigo, orange, and purple
Hot steam fogs up the lens
Tantalizingly aromatic of freshly brewed coffee
Newly cut wood smell
Caramelized
Taste buds blossomed
The luminous dark brown chocolate cascading on layers of spongy cake
Jagged drizzle on the top
You last devoured with ignorance
Abrupt flow of oxygen to the brain
Sliced it open, mesmerized
Deep red fluid
Scooped it out, to feel
Yet luscious in its liquidity
Drained to paralysis
Muscle slackened
Within sludgy flesh
Compact in an amputated corpse
Motionless dived into abyss of despair
Strained half-open eyes
Squinted to see the face of the accused
A smile of destructive fascination
But unfortunate and classic it was
You were stoned to death from behind
What so-called: afterlife
Heard sensational welcoming light draws you towards your loved ones
The stream of consciousness
Lusciously flows
But here
The thought of you still lives on
That all matters.