I am holding it in my hand. I press it in between the tip of my two fingers, and slightly let it rest against the inside of my palm. I turn it around with my thumb. I feel the edges of the small wooden fibres of its solid, but fragile shape. 

Then I place it in between the inside of my middle and index finger and easily flip it up and down between the finger pair to the next. Making it dance acrobatically, like my hand is attached to gymnastic beams. 

The flame appears together with a crispy sound and a silent smell of Sulphur. The head of the stick is burning, the flame moves slowly and the wood inside turns black and thin.

 It makes me think of Karl Blossfeldt photographs of plants and flowers in nature. It makes me think of the beauty of a withering flower. It makes me think of CO2 and global warming and burning forests in Canada, far away from my own small life.