A tingling light. A soft glow begins to emanate, illuminating the dark corners of the premises. Swing. Rush. Roar. As the flames begin to cradle back and forth, a dull lullaby begins to sing to itself. Rushing, roaring, spinning. The song is that of a small child singing alone, a dull echo in its voice as if sung within a hollow mind. So soft and sweet and violent. Deliberate and lulling. Insane. And all of a sudden they explode into a stunning dance of looping, arcing, graceful circulations, all accompanied by the harsh protests of flame both feeding off the wind, and struggling to survive against it. Like a drug.

Intensity is felt. Heat emanates promising annihilation to anything which dares to intercede its destine path. Thrill begins. For the mastery of the flame is man’s oldest battle and greatest victory. They too struggle to overthrow the weaver, but in vain. It follows a chosen course, and all they do is gasp for breath and squeal an outraged sound. It is moving how these things are done.

The eyes all stare, and laugh and grin. None of them know the feeling, the thrill. Pretty lights, rushing sound. “Do a Trick!”

And then the speed, the sound, the sensations. Of fatigue exhilaration. Droplets of water form a protective barrier to prevent the threat of fire, both internal and external. And the skin begins to warm, and heat and boil. Speed and strength recoil. Mild euphoria settles. Faster. Faster. More extravagant, more daring. Hair! And in one final display of dominance and mastery, the flames are stifled leaving only small trails of smoke as testament of their existence.
Clap, clap, clap. Whooo! Yeah, yeah ok. Thanks. Where the ladies at?