confession

I became sick of life as a man sick and bent over from reading–
instead of warmly putting his book to rest and, for next evening,
saving the final chapters in store–coolly strikes match after match,
reducing the pages of what might have possibly unfolded to a pile
of ash which, by now, has quite plausibly blown through your own
cellar window, basement door. Either way, no matter how one
attempts to look at the soot, this changes the whole story al-
together. And, for some reason, this time, even I am a little curious.