The rain lashes down with the cruelty of a world that has sunk its teeth into my dreams. My fingers tremble as I open the matchbox, the cardboard box wet and soft as old sorrow. The fire refuses to cooperate, it resists, as if it understands that each flame swallows a piece of my soul. I scrape the match along the box, but it breaks like a promise that never came true. One more try. The rain laughs at me as I desperately try. Each spark that lights and immediately goes out is an ode to my perseverance, a macabre dance of light and water. The pleasure lies not in the ease, but in the fight – the fight against the elements, against my own desire that hunts me down like a dog.