I like watching fire. There's a comfort to the leaping flames. The sound of crystalline crackles of destruction as wood combusts feels like home to me. It's been that way since I learned to make it.
As I write this, a hazy smoke has enveloped the Pacific Northwest and the high desert whatever the hell biosphere I live in at the moment. There may be a picture accompanying this, but if there is not allow me to describe it: Gray haze with shimmering figures in the distance that resemble mountains inhabited by old chain smoking yeti figures who have run out of shit to eat.