[Instrumental] The sky didn’t open. It just went on. A speck with a name kept asking, then what? No answer at all. I watched the afternoon press on the glass, a cheap little copy of a sky that wouldn’t pass. We call it big when we run out of words. We call it holy when nothing gets heard. A star does its job with nobody there. No speech. No sign. Just hanging in air. Maybe that’s it: not some big reveal, just a light that stays a little past real, while everybody below keeps checking their phones. I stood there on 1% and grinned at the screen. Same old deal— borrowed light, barely seen. One bar left, and the room still held.
