The match lights.
The newspaper sparks immediately — the flame matching the intensity of the ink passionately spread through a dozen stories — and dissolves into ash.
The infant flame crawls onto twigs.
I stand mesmerized by this transmutation: words once poured over by anxious writers now spilled into a fire as kindling, sweat burning into memories I’ve already forgotten.
The winds shift.
I rearrange the sticks to assist their demise, wondering how many revisions — how many editors’ notes — were born before the news fanned out to a half awake audience.
The flames leap from twigs to logs.
I stare transfixed at the graceful movement of the blaze (so gorgeous as it spasms on this log, then another) effortlessly transforming timber into trifling confetti.
I find it poetic.
My stomach screams an idea, an ephemeral epiphany I must immediately share for art’s sake, enthusiastically published on pulp and eventually catalyst for another fire.