Days upon days and days in between

The days became weeks which became months and so on, years and decades and what not. The decades began stacking like a neatly arranged pile of split wood. You would think that wood of similar properties would burn similarly, but not the case. Deep and profound singularities exist for each individual log, while one blazes like the sun, another generates less heat than a fart. And so, many years passed without flame. For decades the fire was not potent, nay, it was a bitter kindling, a feeble glimmer in the dim light of mortality. Marshmallows pierced by the finest twigs would in vain droop near its half-hearted flicker. What fools those marshmallows were who hoped to ignite close to that minute spark! And the truth of this was in time made known to them and because it was so chilly they began to shake, rattle and quiver upon their twigs, and they retreated into space where warmth might be found next to a twinkling star. What optimism had you, sweet marshmallows!?

Question: Should the marshmallows have brought with them walkie-talkies? It's something to consider when one ventures out into the nooks and crannies of deep space. I wouldn't wander around out there without a walkie-talkie. What do you take me for, an idiot? You'd need to be without a trusty walkie-talkie with which to share all the most interesting details of your plummet into the black depths. I list all the hottest spots and cheap deals: "Here's an asteroid, there's a planet, over there's an alien, winking its human-like eye at me. Its spaceship is rather crude." I'm a human, and we should expect such keen traveler's insights, but who would have guessed that marshmallows are so hearty, out here in the infinite vacuum? "I think I'm coming up on the beginning of time," a marshmallow says to me from its walkie-talkie. "You're coming in loud and clear," I tell him, "aren't these great walkie-talkies?" At first there is only static but then, out of the nothing I hear, "Brother, it is not the impressive constancy of these fine walkie-talkies which pleases me so," and again the line went to fuzz, and nothing was heard but a crackling cackle of radio waves in the heavens. "Shit!" I said, "god damn it!" I shook the walkie-talkie and rapped it against my palm. "Work you bastard!" I exclaimed. After waiting a little while I decided to give up, and turned off my walkie-talkie.

Slumped in my chair, I scratched myself and thought about a glass of water. I couldn't tell if the ringing in my ears was coming from the fridge or was a momentary echo from the cosmic static which overran my head and my patience. "Oh well, travel well marshmanaut," I said, and got up to get a glass of water. But just as I made good on my intention to possess a glass of water, who should roll into the room but none other than the space adventurer itself, the Laika of marshmallow rocket men. "Wha!? You're back already, but I thought you were gone for the afternoon, exploring remote galaxies in your quest to find warmth?" I said. The marshmallow did not answer, but its mind was soon made known because it quickly rolled over to me, up my leg, and finally snuggled up into my armpit. "Wha!?" I said, and to my amazement the little lump of sugar paste burst into flames right then and there. I got the message loud and clear, no need for walkie-talkie: Though little more than a smolder, life is not death, nay, but its opposite. And where there is an agitated molecule, there are opportunities for marshmallow roasting.