Do not fear, my ever-effluent embodiment of ethos, that which burns is only your body. For it is of flame. You are creased across the middle like a doll all stupefied in the woods when the headlights alight upon its forehead. Looking up from the carcass steaming in the emptiness of a cricket orchestra; dim save a single bulb casting daunting shadows from a porch aslant three acres far. Southwestern desolate states of crossing the lines and edging ever closer to the heaps of lumber to be burned by the ill at ease. You are an exhaustion. You burn up bright, a ball of tinsel dancing in the eyes of a toddler already middle aged and crying in a cubicle. The coming on of a belief structure is a phenomena akin to the tripping of a steel trap. Those teeth just get in there and an amputation is required to free oneself from the idea. The burning point is too up there to let one walk out the door without a detrimental sacrifice. You are just too pervasive. You are a mental itch so delicate and unseen as to envelop every unconscious effort and estimate each divisive action in advance. The building blocks that seem to resemble free will, when built up, suddenly loom as fate does. You create that feeling of endless possibility while curtailing a revolution. The eyes of the blue, blue fox, caught in the springs chest heaving and life all aspun and stopped up; a secret terror is unveiling its invention. At least it's an ethos.
This is a new phase in your writing. It's very nice.
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