I am constantly fascinated by smoke. Pillars of smoke that surge skyward sinuously like a large harmless snake. Anything in the twilight zone can be the most alluring. The comfort and the beauty of being in oblivion; that behind every cloud of heavy smoke we expect to find a face, a face that within this dense blurriness greets us with a smile so illuminating that nothing can possibly conceal. It is like a candle in a stormy night, the faint flicker struggles on even when the howling wind incessantly threatens to gobble it up. Some imaginative children are also eternally drawn towards this enchanting, half-perceptible face in the gloom. These children, who are blithely immune to the foreknowledge of danger, climb out of their bedroom windows and run vigorously towards the rising smoke. Being assimilated and vanished together with the smoke leave the children, however, with no pain. Love is not an element imperative in our enchantment with what usually fear