sparks blazing in her eyes, she watched him from across the fire sitting silently on her small log, bracing herself shivering a little “You see,” he said, “this fire gives off more sparks than flames.” She nodded And he went on, “It's because it uses souls as fuel. I'm burning things that once used to be part of people, things imbued with their essence. A favorite scarf gifted by a loved one before departing, a wife's beloved ring, a child's doll that resembles their mother, a purse that is seen as magical by a rich merchant who thinks she got rich by holding money in it, an army general's lucky loincloth. These objects have in them parts of the souls of people who used to own them. Other thieves think they're stealing things of value, but they don't know what true value means. Me, I'm no ordinary thief, as you…
“I wish I could write my feelings on the wings of a blue butterfly,” she said. “And then follow it around the room with a burning candle or a lighter until I burn it to a crumpling crisp. I would write about you on those wings, of course. I would go to sleep dressed in funeral attire, hiding your solar plexus between my legs, your skull between my breasts, my tongue circling around and around over and over again inside your orbits. I would decorate your skeletal mouth with rose petals and stick thorns between your teeth. And how many vertebrae do you think I can swallow without choking? D’you think that with training, in time, I could deep throat your whole spine?” His lips parted for a reply but she quickly sealed them back with a finger dipped in her body juices “Shh, don’t answer me with words, darling…
Daydreaming as a profession 