burning it all down would save me.  taking the firestarter’s communion of Molotov cocktails and gasoline wine.  no more head down, no more “oh well, what can you do?”.  I can start over, that’s what I can do.  gas station lighters will be my bibles, the little hands of god.  blowtorch epiphanies.  napalm choirs.  immolation resurrection.  thermite baptism.  there is a new cathedral of smoke and inferno every night.  I’ll be your nuclear saint.  look me in the eyes and tell me that a little fire wouldn’t warm me up.  tell me that burning a few bridges and scorching some earth never got anyone anywhere.  you can tell me whatever you want before the flames take me too.