He hoists himself to his knees.
He cannot lift his arms. They are drained of power, now.
Instead, he hovers his chin above the spark ignition.
Imagines the bang, imagines the flames, imagines the heat. The crisp to which hair and skin will burn, the flesh inside will scream, skeleton made outer-most when they come to find him. And now, for what is here, they will find him truly. The books may burn in paper but they will live on, too, like him.
Soon, he will know these things, and you will know them too, for here they will appear, on page of mind, mind of page, always to be. Judge, judge, my knowledge, and use it well.
And all for Adam will have helped, all for you, all for me. He died to live, he lived to die, he died to write. So close, we are, will be. And so close will he now be to life everlasting, our own paradise garden, for to play again with Adam, our eternal Father, no knowledge of anything or anyone else.
But here is the knowledge I will give to the people left behind. All will know how we end, for it will be written here. All is good. Love is good. What follows is honest Man. Emancipation of artistic talent, posthumously to be hailed amongst the greatest living works of anyone who died. A great and full and lengthy account, pages and pages of mind-writing, of the experience of death. Take note, all, of how we end.
So now, in this momentous act, this mighty act, given to him by Him, for to serve the muse, he presses the ignition with a click.
And –