I have no wick today.
I am that little nub of black carbon floating precariously on the pool of clear melted wax.
One puff and I will go out.
My clients are working ever nerve I own and others I have had to borrow.
They speak with their ears and listen with their mouths.
I have hung up on three of them already out of my own impatience with their seeming lack of familiarity concerning matters of modern discourse.
I am on the edge of running down the street, buck naked, unaware that the black tarmac burns my feet.
I am as thin as pulled glass.
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