That night, all I could think of was that poem.

Tiger tiger, burning bright

In the forest of the night

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

When I was little, I always got sad when I heard that poem. I would ask my mom, "if the tiger is on fire, why doesn't someone put it out?" But that was so long ago. Now, things are different. Now, I wish the tiger was on fire. Maybe then it would leave me alone....