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Tendrils of smoke and fire dance all around, Cecil watching them all in wonder. He has never experienced anything like this before, in all of his years living in Night Vale. He realizes that he is floating, suspended in space. Flying without wings. Perhaps he is dreaming. Certainly, the fire is not burning him and the smoke doesn’t seem to be blackening his lungs, so he must be dreaming. Probably dreaming.
This is a lovely dream, if that’s what it is… the fire is now green and blue and pink and yellow, and Cecil realizes that he can control the coils of gas and vapor. He starts to orchestrate the flames’ movements, creating flowers and animals, and eventually forming a figure that looks somewhat like his Carlos. ‘May we dance?’ Cecil’s dream self asks, holding his hand out to the fiery being.
Of course, the dream figure accepts. The dance is a simple waltz, a basic 1-2-3, 1-2-3, and it flows smooth and otherworldly, neither one seeming to lead. There is no music, there is no need for it. It is simple and pure and completely lovely. Cecil does not want to leave the dream, not yet. He knows he must wake up at some point, it is inevitable. Even so… this is too wonderful for words.