The sun is a story that never gets old.

What a miracle is the sun. What without it where would we be? We would never exist — that’s where we’d be. Post human yet in lieu of a dawn, marked as absent in the rewritten future, unmade and fixed without the chance to envessel and breathe life, nothing as we could ever know it would have the chance to become if the sun were in love with someone else. No you. No me. Hence the sun is the ultimate miracle. And the embodiment of a man if he is the seemen to any planet bearing life. A miracle without the choice but to give himself away until despite all that which he giveth, he taketh away the faucet one day when he kills himself and leaves a black hole in his void. A genuine miracle however long lasting indeed. But more so is the earth. She. A woman if she can live neither with or without the boyish sun. Endearing how an exact distance kept from him has made her rare and green. To him she is his Goldilocks: not only picky but a musky person who shows off her filth. What a miracle she really is. Orbit gum pack in her pocket. I can see its outline in her jeans. Half scratched away temporary tattoo of a ninja turtle on her wrist. I find it adds so much character. Though her existence was not brought about courtesy of the sun, as the sun did not spawn her, she certainly would exist without him but she’s existentially greater with him as an eye and her as its apple.


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