​I just want you to know that I saved the turtle.

I’m glad that fire will be the last thing I see before I die.

I have always admired the flickering of the warmth against the inkblot of night. I’m a writer, you know. You could tell. Staring into fire helps me write. There is inspiration in fire; it’s lifeblood and survival and destruction.

Just like that fire, or something like it, I don’t know anymore. It was my own hubris that was my destruction, or will be my destruction. I’m not sure anymore.

I was drunk off moscato. It helps me write. I was drunk and I posted online. I wish I had a candle that never went out.

Granted. It doesn’t go out.

The comment was downvoted. It made no sense. It just gave me what I asked for, right? And that wasn’t the point of the subreddit. Who cares?

I lit my pillar candle. I write dark academia. Wrote dark academia. It helps set the mood. It helps me write. It inspires me on days, weeks, I get moscato drunk instead of actually, you know, writing.

I lit my pillar candle and stared into it. Into the fire. I thought about dreams. I rambled onto a page. I went to blow my candle out and then I realized it did not go out.

My pillar candle burnt through its holder on my bedside table. I tossed my water on it. It didn’t go out.

I called the fire department, obviously. They tried to put it out. The water fizzled into steam before it hit the raging inferno, and I thought, how far will it spread? Until me and my house and my turtle are dead? Longer than that?

I tossed Frog the turtle to the firemen out of the second story window. Better that than burning alive, I guess. And it’s not like he asked for this.