Poor light,

what a saint you are, shining on everything, drawn to the world like flames are to moths, like honey to bees. So readily do you dole yourself out, and in such abundance so that we might operate our otherwise redundant eyes. For they’d be useless even as shiny bibelots that studded the otherwise dull surfaces of faces. No, in your absence, in that total darkness the eyes wouldn’t see or even be seen. And they would soon shrivel up and desiccate, die out from pointlessness like the little toe will (unless we can find a way to reverse its long decline). Hey, plump eyes! Isn’t it time you put your tiny wet hands together for the light!