Out of SortsEndowed in grand sweeps of obstinate yearning he was borne to the enduring sufferance of anxiety and what lay pressed down beneath that. It was a commanding curse brought forth by the hands of fate. He lay bare in unsaid exasperation, chains and shackles, twine and knots.
How perfect for victories of restless abandon and desolate pause he thought. He sat on the alabaster and blossom patterned sofa ashes near the tip of his cigarette and gray smudges complaining in stained upholstery. He guided the butt to his lips and inhaled in short puffs of teasing pleasure.
What of the wheat he had dreamed of, what of the wheat. Pristine, amber hued and flowing, and what of the misery he was feeling. He looked at the pile of straw nestled between his feet and in sudden realization he screamed, “YEEEEEEEEEHHHHHAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWW.”
Perfection in saffron he thought. “Yeah.” he whispered as he dropped the match to the straw. The straw smoldered for a moment and then burst into flame. As he stood there the soles of his shoes melting from the heat he had a thought. “Ash and stones, tender prairie ash. The wheat rolled before his dreaming eyes and he saw fire.