LIMIT SWITCH

Delicate and vernal, at first the pilot blooms like a hot sprig of squill. Only with the machinations of fingers and gas does it burst forward like a fried piece of corn and lap up metal and paper. A single wavering stem carries the faith that the small and greedy things in this world can be contained. But deep inside roils a factory of vengeance, a blight against skin and wooden cities. In this game, there is no prize: to ignite the stove is to coax the snake to snap up your hand with jaws of crackling propane. Oh, you, so small and ant-like in your happy prison of ignorance, what blistering embers have you invented to keep us all from harm?