The burning rose again in his chest. An internal fire of visions unknown to the world floated behind his eyes, a fire that showed only in his slightly moistened eyes and almost hunched posture. He heard her words and managed to respond legibly, without slurring or deprecation, but the visions continued to pass. Fleeting glimpses of tear-worn eyes and dark horsemen, of shallow breathing and spectral fire.
An ages old mix of longing and deception, the fire had burned so long it could not be interpreted for speaking, it had become the history of the world. In the ages since its ignition it had grown cold and alive, become hungry and settled down as a squalid pall over his thoughts, moldering and eating away at its host; a cup of milk long neglected now just a writhing green and white mass. Simple errors and great pains consumed his body, fanning embers of memory, regret and impotence. Every recollection of her eyes reaching for sobs that could not be pulled from his body.
Finally, sitting in the car with his lips covered in snot and tears the coals found their kindling. The burning erupted into a wrathful holocaust of fire and pain, anger directed inwards to sear his lungs and fingers and stomach, the sobs wracked his body until his muscles were cold fire and his face, always so composed, was a mass of lines which hinted at his infernal agonies.
The fire had not receded but at least its hallucinations were somewhat comprehensible.
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