The man is like a fire, rapidly consuming everything and everyone. And,
just like a flame, you don't want to let him touch you. The fire has a
name: Michel Enjolras.
He was the Olympic torch, the symbol and heart of the event. He was the one generating the heat. Maybe I'm a runner, only known because of the torch. No one ever remembers the name of the runner: Justin Grantaire.
He's burning with the fire of revolution; it's an untamable blaze that ignites all emotion. Some call it passion. I call it fire.
I'm burning too; I'm alight for someone. It's all right, there's nothing you can do, and only one person can douse my flames.
I'm called a drunkard; I drink as a habit. Alcohol is flammable; if I drink enough, maybe I can burn up completely. That would be nice.
Enjolras, you are my mother's candle. I always loved fire; as a small child I'd leave my candle burning dangerously long into the night. I was smacked when I stared at it; my mother was always telling me not to touch it. Not to stare at it. But I cherished each glance I could steal of the forbidden flame.
My mother always used to be cross at me for putting my fingers through the flame; I could do it so fast I wouldn't burn. I trusted my judgment; nothing so pretty could hurt me.
Until my mother, in a fit of rage, held my hand in the candle.
So I repel you, Enjolras, with each grin. I push you away with my lack of faith and even my existence. I suppose it is for the best.
Because if you touch me you might burn up, I contain so much fire. And I know it is never good for anyone to play with fire.
He was the Olympic torch, the symbol and heart of the event. He was the one generating the heat. Maybe I'm a runner, only known because of the torch. No one ever remembers the name of the runner: Justin Grantaire.
He's burning with the fire of revolution; it's an untamable blaze that ignites all emotion. Some call it passion. I call it fire.
I'm burning too; I'm alight for someone. It's all right, there's nothing you can do, and only one person can douse my flames.
I'm called a drunkard; I drink as a habit. Alcohol is flammable; if I drink enough, maybe I can burn up completely. That would be nice.
Enjolras, you are my mother's candle. I always loved fire; as a small child I'd leave my candle burning dangerously long into the night. I was smacked when I stared at it; my mother was always telling me not to touch it. Not to stare at it. But I cherished each glance I could steal of the forbidden flame.
My mother always used to be cross at me for putting my fingers through the flame; I could do it so fast I wouldn't burn. I trusted my judgment; nothing so pretty could hurt me.
Until my mother, in a fit of rage, held my hand in the candle.
So I repel you, Enjolras, with each grin. I push you away with my lack of faith and even my existence. I suppose it is for the best.
Because if you touch me you might burn up, I contain so much fire. And I know it is never good for anyone to play with fire.