scruta

If I die in a plane crash, I want to crash in the middle of the Amazon, a churning pyre of hissing deep-growth trees, twisted metal, crackling wildlife and the wide-eyed stares of the natives.

I want the blaze to spread in a wild fire, engulfing a wide acreage of rainforest, lighting up all of Amazonia, seen even by sleepy babes from the swampy depths of Manaus. I want the satellites to relay pictures to squat, brilliant men in dilapidated security strongholds, making them gasp with stale breaths over toasted coffees. The fireball will be a phoenix testament to the world that, when analyzed properly, tells fortunes for the soothsayers of fantastic realms, cities of gold, looming on the horizon, beckoning wizened travelers from faraway lands to place their feet upon their scintillating pavements, casting gazes at the beautiful women who glimmer with metals swirled about them…

The dreamers will call this demise, this too-quick oxidation, this fiery explosion the end that caused the beginning.