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Once, I fell asleep in a fire. It was OK. I’m inflammable. Marguerite says that, like eleven fingers, I have an unusual condition. Sometimes, I talk backwards to the bathroom mirror. Like igniting a kerosene blaze with a rain-damp match, what’s hard for some is easier for others. Just when you think you’ve got your chemicals perfectly mixed, you begin to hear voices in your head again. Mine are whispers about sparks. Yesterday, Marguerite texted me. She said, Don’t forget, you’re out on your own recognizance. Later, as I was carrying my gas can up Lake St., the police stopped me. I told them, I look a lot like my identical twin. They didn’t crack a smile, but they let me go. I went home and locked myself in. Eventually, every fire burns itself out. I felt much better after I listened to the flames.