How did Your Highness awaken this morning? Radiant... or merely veiled by the ancient tragedy of existing? I have always suspected that true beauty is not born of perfection, but of the strange courage to open one's eyes and, in spite of everything, continue illuminating the world.
I imagine the sun hesitating before breaking the horizon, like an ageing king who, for the first time, fears his own throne. Perhaps it sought permission to rise above your head, not out of reverence for the heavens, but because it recognised that there are faces before which even light appears to be an imperfect imitation.
How curious... we spend our lives believing that dawn is what rescues mankind, when, sometimes, a single presence is enough to justify the existence of morning.