The Lighthouse paints Neoshima in quiet stripes. From up here, on the top floor of the Council Spire, the beam slides over petals of metal and the lotus walls, washes the rails and glass, keeps going. The city looks like a machine that learned how to breathe. The beam rolls on and on - an unblinking vow in the wet night.
My hand is on the window. It steadies nothing and but do it anyway. The Spire is good at ceremony by day. At this hour it keeps only function and a long view. Elevators stop whispering. Somewhere deep, a door is uncertain whether to hiss or not... The Lighthouse turns, returns, turns again. When I was small I tried to match its revolutions with breathing, to see if promises could be measured that way. Now I use it as a metronome for decisions. A slow, relentless beat to move against.
