Description

Flowing through the eyes of madness, a man and a mind burning as one. Written as script of ancient flame and sun. Nobody cares for a novel written so pretentious and ill. Only time will tell if fate took me down or I took her. That's just the start before the start - I said I'll begin before it all, and I should and I shall defer you to a priest or a beast. The flow of flame is everything between the crackling lightning and thunder on the seams.

The first color of a birthing flame is a dark red, like what's on a baby's outstretched bulbous scarlet-tinted head. Just like what pumps in vain of the varicose vein, just another story to put on the shelf and conflagrate.

How long can one act out of pure passion, of self?

I cannot write a story of nothing, but here goes nothing.