It begins with a dark fantasy, the setting of little significance. Insult leads to severance. It isn't justification, exactly. It's a warning I never learned to recognize, hence the detour through hurt and offense. It's pure imagination, for he would never choose another, would he? Ah, the sweet doubt which makes the pretense sting. The effects run counter to the outer world for which I wear a mask for maximal effect or for survival, take your pick. The air quivers with anticipation, but it's not registered. Then, the spark, the catalyst for the spell wrought in preparation for autumn's glaze, a melting wick of quivering wax. It was for this I was born, but no one knows the signs and I've yet to perfect them. Modernity provides little space, the beliefs incompatible. But it works, and that's the main thing, except it tends towards embarrassment when the dark mood has passed.