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Fire.

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One matchstick.
A crumpled up pile of newspaper lays silently on the bottom of the hearth.
The walls become thick with black ashes from the restarting of last night’s rendition.
Hours later, the fire still blazes, but you reignite it anyways.

Two matchstick.
A strike of the thin wood strand against the rough red surface sends chills down my body.
The position of the wood strand is the key to the glow of the thick logs.
Hours later, the fire still blazes, but you add a little more sting.

Three matchstick.
A slight hint of gasoline is poured by the side, just enough, not too much.
The fire roars with uncontrollable and undesirable force that is too hot to bare.
Hours later, the fire still blazes, but you thought you put it out.
   Four.






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