A Nonsense

The east-facing door wears a rising sun carved in low relief, scratched out middle-high and left of center, just above where its heart would be. It hangs an imperfect seal between worlds, little warps and cracks pressing and pulling against threshold and jambs, waving through a minuscule dimensional exchange in violation of its singular brief. Its heart-sun flares in stasis, holding up its end so far as it can tell, mistaking the first light of every day for work of its own. It soaks in the warmth of photons, in sacrifice for the cool, homely spaces behind. For half a rotation at least, it loses the distinction between taking and giving, absorbing and emitting, collecting and radiating as its surface equalizes with the warming atmosphere it holds at tentative bay. Between dawn and noon, binary stars, made and making, light the eastern facade in exactly equal measure, the balance of efforts quantifiable to the mote.

Inside, oblivious to the sentry-guard beating back the ultraviolets and infrareds in favor of a million-million excited diodes electrified in a controlled explosion of organized pixels currently recreating a photo-real vision of a flawless sunrise (over Scotland maybe!), nobody can agree about dinner. Secondhand daylight glows in a hanging rectangle no eyes mind, sublimating into corner shadows on an endless expanse of ecru.

A firmament more firm, but less permanent.