Fire and Glass

The candle burns low The wick is old, the wax stale. The liquid in the bottle is warm, but I don't care. My hand aches, and I don't know why - but I continue. The pen is a fire in my hand, that burns words onto paper. I don't know where they come from. I don't even know what they want to say, until its been said. A fly lands on my glass table, brings me back to this world. Does the fly ever wonder?