This dispatch is almost too much for my eyes, such delicate orbs, but there is a comfort in the sincerity of light, we must not be frightened to gaze upon this world of illuminated forms. Some would think that I am fond of candlelight, at once I was; the romantic glow lent itself to intimacy by being indirect about those things best left to indirection. Now it is a scalding and searing excess and so I balance and pull myself towards light only when it is willing to be a shadow of itself, and you may now think less of me for thinking of light as shadow, but from where else or what source? My fears of the dark are balanced perfectly by this fright of naked bulbs, bare radiance, that direct luminous substance, but when cast from its source to work its way through keyholes and down hallways to find itself in yet another room. My room after sunset and the soft light is all around me and I’m content; as happy now as I was discontent moments ago and who is not to say that it is not the cycle of the day or the lamp’s burning output? I am no different from any other and have spent a lifetime coveting and arranging lights and foiling the same with blinds and shades, trying to make the most of the day but dwelling on that hour in which the lucent becomes slim and slender, and if my life could be evening forever, the sundial would be useless, time might slow as it does in sleep, at last.