We assemble beneath the bleeding horizon, to witness the fall of light’s sovereign reign. Its ascent was a hymn we dared not question, its descent, a requiem we failed to prepare for. Once, the sky burned as if to warn us— a flame too vibrant, too holy, meant always to consume itself. Yet we stood, foolish and bare, as if permanence was promised. The sun wore its mortality openly, its splendor tethered to the quiet violence of every passing hour. Still, we bathed in its indifference, pretending we did not notice the waning. Twilight arrives, a patient mourner, veiling the wounds left in its wake. What was it we hoped to salvage from this slow unraveling? What part of the light did we think could belong to us? Now the embers smear across the heavens, dragging their final breaths through amber streaks, and the horizon swallows whole what we could not hold. Call it a lesson in futility, in loving what was always destined to leave. Call it grief disguised as reverence, as we stand here in the dying glow, asking questions we already know the answers to: _What will we do without it?_