Threshold

The morning light arrives like a visitor who knows exactly where things are— illuminates the coffee's steam, the web between chair-legs, each speck of dust a small rebellion.

I watch the sun rewrite the room in languages of gold and amber, teaching the walls their own reflections. Time moves differently here, measured in the arc of light, not clocks.

Everything ordinary becomes a threshold. The cup holds a universe. The shadow stretches toward tomorrow. And I am here, suspended in the geometry of presence.