It's torture, almost, being forced to sit by and watch the fake flames take over the village's Martinisingen celebration; knowing that your friends, family and neighbors had just been barred from heaven.
Even worse when you can see them. Their eyes are white and aimless, but you know that they watch the flames, too, with more focus than you could ever manage. And the sky. Wistful. Ready.
(( concept piece for class of my comic/story St. Martin Song ))