It wasn’t fire so much as the needle-heat of an allergic reaction: uncomfortable, almost unbearable, not pleasant.
There seemed an endless well of it, waiting around dark corners, in ambush, deep down inside.
The unimportant took on maniac precedence. Beauty had no way to reach him. Tears were a sweet relief so far removed from possibility, he rarely even remembered to try.
The sunlight looked plentiful and possibly grand until he broke the threshold. Then it became intrusive, insistent, or, sometimes, simply fled away.
He supped on little more than panic and void.