I smoke cigarettes so that I can breathe fire.
I am a fevered dragon broiling to be quenched with something into which even the purest of gold can’t be alchemized.
Something that a bed of the finest filament can’t transcend. Can’t aspire to. It is deeper than value. More tangible than numbers. Than grammar. Than heat. As intrinsic as consciousness. The only thing that beats pulse for pulse on a frequency that matches your own breath.
Even when you are not breathing with it.
It’s just known. Your own. A claim that you don’t have to stake. A statement you don’t need to make. It’s just a deal you make, with a heart outside of your body. A lofty will-o-the-wisp that materializes haughtily. As if to say “Dear, I’ve been here…..all along. So stop breathing your fire at me. I’m always under your sleeping self. The sediment beneath the bedrock that you never knew was there.”
Show yourself, then.