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October 1, 2010
And if the flames come licking at the edges of his dreams some nights, well, that isn't a disaster. If he remembers all too vividly the sooty sting of ashes in his eyes and the smoke curling down his throat to choke his lungs -- if he falls over his own feet sometimes, recalling the sound of wood splintering under too much heat -- if tears slip from the corners of his eyes when he does not mean them to fall, if his voice comes out in a whisper when he means to shout -- it is not, in the end, a disaster.