Sunlight, flung from the distant eastern horizon and skimming in low over the scrubby treetops, scatters out across the floor, carrying shadows with it, and slams into the far wall. If you press your hand flat against the sunlit wall, starlight will paint your hand with warmth, touching you from the dark, cold void of space. To live in such accord with the spheres is the most mundane of wonders, something we think very little about. Beneath the pavement or the floor, the planet wheels away, carrying us with it. We're all along for the ride, light and shadow, hot and cold, you and me. If you press your hand flat against my sunlit chest, starlight will paint your hand with warmth, and I may shudder or cringe just a bit, being shy about such things, the everyday wonder of living in such accord with you.
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