He never just showed up with firewood, he came with a bundle of hickory, that he schlepped on his back eight miles through the switchbacks, where he harvested the timber by hand, with a kukri.  This motherfucker came to stoke a fire— to burn hotter and brighter and smell like some kind of umami. He came to revel. To watch things burn. To ignite something, to watch it smolder, to watch embers crumble and flames lick. To revel, to be wild & become the soul of the swarm was his true gift. It felt native, like the savagery of his home. As if the firewood was merely the buy-in to transform into something more, something less human, more akin to the eye of a storm. As an electric dynamo that rained chaos; he grew to possess the form that reigned in chaos. Haughty on his of power, fearless in the certainty that death would claim all.