At the edge of things, I found a scar of where I began, a rip in the air where molecules once danced until they became one. As eyes, ears, and skin tingled with self-awareness, they left only dirt and strands of web as a record of their passing. Years later, I found them by chance, waiting with the thrum of hope.

Covering one eye, I saw through the other more clearly: a slice of memory burnt by the sun. I held myself as still as possible, comforted by the blur of my surroundings. Holding to that truth of perception, my hands trembled with the cool anticipation of machinery.

Thus captured, I turned away, no longer shedding the tears I stepped on to get here. Without the window, I would never see myself, never know the means by which I communicated, cried for help, or praised the Creator for carving reality with a tool of light.