Beside me fire licks up the side of a faux log, frantically trying to taste, to consume the wood. Those hungry tongues are encased in glass, forever locked in their futile quest. They burn passionately, driven to accomplish their desire. It seems I always find myself with unconsumed logs, artificial, lying at my feet. I am sick of this silent fire. It is too clean, too neat, too easy to maintain. I long for real flames, greedy flames. I wish to tread on ash and ember, to dirty my face with soot and absorb smoke into my very core so that the smell cannot be washed out.