On the Rise.

Not the sun. The sun is only light. It comes from you, the friction of your blood through your veins, the air swept through your lungs and coming out hot, your moods, the flush of your skin, and the steam that comes off you, emitted when you rub against your clothes, part the air, touch and stroke, rub things together, shuffle your feet, chew your food, pet the dog. You give it away when you hand someone change. It pulses from the flames you set loose, from the engines you start to pull the heat out of your refrigerator, to push the heat out of your house, to take you away from yourself. It even pours off of the brakes that stop you from going too far And setting the world on fire.