The flame had been kindled, they said, a thousand thousand years ago, in China, some said, in Egypt, said others, and there were even those that claimed it had first been lit in the heart of Africa. All agreed that it was the first fire, the primal fire.
They told a story of many thousand years ago, when the fire had a temple and a place of worship, when it was fed on pure oils and fragrant woods and the guards of the king marched round the grounds day after night after day. In those days an army came out of the lands beyond the Kings reach, and they smashed the temple and killed the king and the tenders of the fire took a bit of it and hid it in a pot of oil and fled. When the kings son had crushed the invaders the tenders came back and found that the son did not worship the fire. He worshiped the sun, and he had forgotten the time when only the fire kept man safe, when the sun had fled beyond the hills and night was on the world.
There are few, now, who worship the fire. Fire can be made without flint and steel, without the old drill, without providence or miracle. Every child makes fire and his parents tell him not to, that it is dangerous and fickle and not to be trusted. Man keeps his fires far away and out of sight, hidden in sheaths of metal and concrete, away safe and forgotten. But they do not worship it. They do not love it. They do not think of the nights when it has kept mankind from cold and beasts and lost paths.
These days the fire has a new temple. The tenders come here by shifts. In the dim light of this temple they sip coffee and the semidarkness is studded by dozens of tiny red pinpoints. Curls of smoke leave their lips as they give their sacrifice to the primal flame. The flame is fed now on rich tobaccos and fragrant oils. As each cigarette burns low the next is lit from its stub, endlessly, over and over and over again. The tenders sacrifice their youth and their health to the flame, and willingly. It is mankinds first friend.
NOTE: I could use a blowjob. I could use a backrub. But what I could really use is a huge damned triple layer sundae of warm brownies and fudge and cinnamon icecream and caramel and... like... fucking cooked candied pears and apples... or something. I don't know, exactly, but it should be roughly six inches high, weigh two pounds, and contain enough calories to feed nigeria for a year.
They told a story of many thousand years ago, when the fire had a temple and a place of worship, when it was fed on pure oils and fragrant woods and the guards of the king marched round the grounds day after night after day. In those days an army came out of the lands beyond the Kings reach, and they smashed the temple and killed the king and the tenders of the fire took a bit of it and hid it in a pot of oil and fled. When the kings son had crushed the invaders the tenders came back and found that the son did not worship the fire. He worshiped the sun, and he had forgotten the time when only the fire kept man safe, when the sun had fled beyond the hills and night was on the world.
There are few, now, who worship the fire. Fire can be made without flint and steel, without the old drill, without providence or miracle. Every child makes fire and his parents tell him not to, that it is dangerous and fickle and not to be trusted. Man keeps his fires far away and out of sight, hidden in sheaths of metal and concrete, away safe and forgotten. But they do not worship it. They do not love it. They do not think of the nights when it has kept mankind from cold and beasts and lost paths.
These days the fire has a new temple. The tenders come here by shifts. In the dim light of this temple they sip coffee and the semidarkness is studded by dozens of tiny red pinpoints. Curls of smoke leave their lips as they give their sacrifice to the primal flame. The flame is fed now on rich tobaccos and fragrant oils. As each cigarette burns low the next is lit from its stub, endlessly, over and over and over again. The tenders sacrifice their youth and their health to the flame, and willingly. It is mankinds first friend.
NOTE: I could use a blowjob. I could use a backrub. But what I could really use is a huge damned triple layer sundae of warm brownies and fudge and cinnamon icecream and caramel and... like... fucking cooked candied pears and apples... or something. I don't know, exactly, but it should be roughly six inches high, weigh two pounds, and contain enough calories to feed nigeria for a year.
and to reply to your NOTE: this week I am too tired to give any kind of blowjob to anyone, but if you're looking to fuck the brains out of someone who is as unmoving as the dead, you know how to reach me.
I'm totally not whoring myself out to you or anything.
when, if ever, dost thou want to borrow that Slapstick book I spazzed out over at lunch the other day? you can probably read it in a hour. but if you need to kill more than one hour, read it twice. it's that good.