Inky black stains cover a heart of leaded glass-- both transparant and dark, brittle. A dancing flame arises to sear them from me, leaving only a wrecked cinder, oily opaque fire to burn, the thick smoke welling up into a weighty mind, leaving me to the scorching dark.
This, truly, is grim hell, with only myself as both the bitter tormentor and tortured. In this veil of flames and darkly burning smoke I walk, wandering, looking for an end which I know comes only as the flames burn themselves out. Left to the ashes is just one more piece of leaded glass.













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--
"Character is strength born of struggle."
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