Every You Every Me

When Flynn first steps into the new world, the first thing that he notices is that there is no sun illuminating the sky. Instead, a thick tapestry of stars glow in all the colors of the spectrum, casting a hazy light on the world below, just bright enough for him to be able to see clearly, yet so incomparably dim to the warmth and radiance of the daytime sun. Clouds drift hazily, more translucent than the ones that he’s used to seeing, not thick enough to block the scant starlight, just enough to make their presence known. And an oval-shaped moon hangs low in the sky, so much larger than the moon Flynn’s used to seeing that it almost feels like he could reach out to grasp the celestial body between the palms of his hands.

If God truly is in the details, then Flynn can see clearly the maker in his creation: this is the world of a boy who never knew the sun.

It’s beautiful, Flynn thinks, and he truly means it.