Yes, I’ve watched the sky blush from cobalt to amber on a ridge, the light flickering like a quick brushstroke on a fresco. It’s a moment that refuses to stay, a painting that vanishes as soon as it’s finished. I adore that fleeting beauty, but I also let it slip through my fingers like a delicate note in a gallery, because that impermanence is what makes it worth seeing.

True, stories are the gallery that keeps the light alive, a frame of whispered moments. I’ll keep watching the horizon, letting that fire stay just bright enough to tease the night. Your reminder is a lovely brushstroke.