Candles. Flames. Bobbing gently, like stars reflected in a pond. Shining points. Barely moving. Warm. Sun-bright. Thinning darkness and concentrating it, darkness is smaller, denser, turning on night instead of light. Two candles together, mirroring. Let there be light. Rasp of match. And there was light. Prometheus stole me to illuminate Bede, to shine upon Shakespeare’s moving nib. Does the flame recall their struggles with words, with pages?
I’ve seen it all before. You aren’t the first, you won’t be the last. Flame is eternal, the word is fleeting.

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