Beneath the surface of the sun a treasure hides, a devotion so intense it can melt even the hardest of hearts and break even the coldest of ice. Two skins for whom darkness is unknown, dance as young and fresh as flowers in spring, shining through the window of a lonely poet dreaming of autumn and islands, unaware of the pieces of broken glass projecting a rainbow behind her back.

How long before the sun sets? — wrote the poet as she was being written.

How long before the sun sets? — wrote the poet again.

At night, her old lantern lit her way to the harbour, where she sat for hours, thinking about autumn and islands. The water at her feet, as cold as winter, cleared her mind as though her thoughts were being washed away by the waves. The reflection of her lantern painted the sun in the water, overshadowing the stars in a sky as clear as the empty bottle in her yard that once sailed towards her with a message inside, a poem from her future self about the sun, the ice, the flowers, and rainbows and harbours and stars and water and bottles.

How long before the sun rises? — wrote the poet in a dream.

How long before the sun rises? — wrote the poet again.

And the sun never rose, for the poem never told what happened after that night, and ever since, the poet has remained frozen in her own words, never to be written again, unless one day the stars align again in the same position as they did that night when her writer dreamed of autumn and islands.