He's a source of indistinguishable fury. Choose open or closed flame, you just never know. A spark is always there, ready to bellow.
Unleashing the extreme is like standing under icicles. They hang over my head, ready to strike at any moment. You just never know. Ready to leave their puncturing wounds. I can't talk to them. Make sense of them. They are frozen, stiff, festering his core of anger, resentment, and self-hatred.
Too bad his raging fire won't melt the icicles.
Spending all of these years trying to become immune to it, and eventually, all he'll be hurting is himself.
Dark, despairing energy. The kind that sticks to the walls of this house.