Prometheus stole the fire from the gods, so that industry could bind it into little wooden boxes. Whoever has a light has the power to create brief scenes of intimacy: “Excuse me, do you have a light?” – And already two complete strangers on the street incline towards each other, encounter each other for a few seconds in the protected space of a cupped hand, in which light and warmth of a possible togetherness wrest from life an ephemeral meaning. The thankful look of the fire seeking lady may well be an invitation to prolong the moment and not to withdraw the protecting hand. What is happening here is a dropping out of space and time, a magic of encounter, in which the mere mechanics of creating fire are canceled out by a moment of felicity. But even as a pure gesture of nonchalance the flame, whose yellowy whiteness suddenly darts from the fist, connects us with the gods and our mythical origins. The cold glow of the e-cigarette has none such vigor. The e-smoker may live healthier and longer, but he is transcendentally homeless, and that is not a desirable result.