There is a fire smoldering somewhere, sometime, someplace... It exists with a mind of its own... memories... feelings... contemplations... beliefs... desires...

The heat of the fire attracts creatures who, needing the warmth, willingly sacrifice a young, sweet log that trembles as the flames envelop it. The flowing finger-tendrils burn away the log's bark clothing and pleasures itself with the supple wooden flesh beneath. The flames dance over the log and kiss its skin, leaving behind the pale ash scar of its love. The fervor of the fire leaps and bounds, the scalding tendrils deflower and devour the virgin wood it was presented with. The fire's passion grows rough, forceful. The flames lick higher, their center white-hot. The fire coaxes blood-sap from its prey, drinking as it bubbles out. Embers fly from the tempest of their union. They love each other well, the log and the flame, until the log becomes only an ash-filled shell of what it had been, and after its death, the fire pines away because of what it has done, and must die... or save its own existence by putting aside the memory of its beloved and loving another, beginning the cycle again...