I strike a match and the flame jumps as if just woken from a long nap and then, gently, I lower the flame to the crooked wick of the candle, hunched over and tired from past sessions. The flame catches slowly and begins to rise. Its head begins peeking up over the edge of the crimson glass panels in the lantern in which the stubby mess of wax sits nestled snuggly in its place. The room around me is now bathed in an eerie glow from the flame which wobbles about drunkenly. A small bit of broken wick sits on top of the stub, an out of place freckle on an otherwise pristine white. The smell of sulfur and laundry fill the air as the scented candle begins to burn hotter and I remember cold evenings long ago I had long since forgotten. I take one final look at the flame which now whimpers softly and I blow it out, immersing myself in darkness. The moment is gone and I laugh silently as the last wisp of smoke fades into nothing.