Casually, he had cast the lighted matchstick up. Instead of down, to be falling somewhere on the already dirty earth beneath. Or on some long abandoned newspaper. Yellow grasses. And set them aglow. Like he always did. Perhaps, today, boredom overcame him. Or bittersweet memories of void days. Or maybe, sheer discontent. All in all, it would always be a guess. And after all, it doesn’t matter.

For the matchstick was gone. To complete the mission. And therefore, it was.

A chunk of the blue azure above caught fire.

People who stared out of the window remembered watching the colors.

Colors.

Their eyes – already too filled with colors. Variegated. Everyday. In different proportions. Becoming the media of make-believe. Couldn’t decipher, nor define the colors above. Many recalled having with them the feeling of the end. Or perhaps, a new beginning. A purging. And they said, they couldn’t runaway. Nor take their eyes away.

The fire played with the wind. Forming diverse shapes. Each of those shapes reminded them of some of their creations. Perhaps, no more shapes were left to be discovered. Perhaps, we have cut it all – papers, clothes, woods, stones, lands. Like our hairs. In every possible shape. And their combination thereof. It’s all been tried out. And it’s all been watched been tried out. Two eyes or less. Compensated by a hundred satellites or more.

Will there be satellites after this fire, someone thought. That thought was an instant. Propagated through wires or signals. It became eternity. Immortality. A prayer shared in common by all.

All, except one.

Before he had cast the lighted matchstick up, he had already lighted a cigarette with it. And he was content again. He never looked up at the burning azure. He passed away taking puffs.

The police found him by the traces of smoke left behind. A deeper shade of grey.