One of the chief hassles of trying to catch a daily blog up to its obligations after more than a week away from it is that you don’t encounter, pill remember and then process photos sequentially.
And so, a gap in my headlong, monthlong rush through catching up from a vivid, waking life in London is filled with a quaint souvenir from last year’s trip to Hawaii.
Despite the cool box from Volcano House, which sheltered Mark Twain, Robert Louis Stevenson and many celebrities more, I can’t say why we would keep burnt matches – although, it looks as though these were never really lit: Perhaps the sulfur has just crumbled from the heads, perhaps they were provided as a gag – already-burnt matches. Can’t tell.
But a paper matchbox is a thing of no small beauty when assembled correctly and emblazoned with iconic flames.
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.