To love—the paragon against which all else falls flat. No words could possibly convey this deep, unfathomable thing that dances in the heart and oozes outward. Oozes? No, cascades as if light itself were bending and falling and multiplying.
Can light spread or is it already multiplied? The dawn brightens slowly but sunlight reflects from water in various lines and shapes. Through the window and into the pool, inside the apartment building, it forms a rippling rectangle that doesn't appear to multiply at all.
How is it that the speed of light is faster than I can comprehend, yet the dawn arrives slowly? It's the earth that's slow, isn't it? A tiny ball rotating amongst a plethora of stars in a universe of which none of us has seen the end.