The morning was sweeter than an autumn peach. The sun rose like fire. It was still cool, but the sun would soon see to that.
The waves whispered to the ball of fire, telling it the secrets of the night. The sun thought the little waves foolish. Who could believe the sky had room for thousands of twinkling lights? And, the sun reasoned, who would even wish to see such insignificant lights when his own was enough to blind any creature on the planet below.
The ocean was a fool. The sky was bright blue, the sun knew this well. Every day, the bright blue held the sun in place and framed his beauty, and, though he saw the moon every month, there was no way that lazy chunk of rock could turn the ocean’s surface into silver. The sun knew that for certain.
But still the waves whispered. They told about green and blue lights that sparkled like emeralds, coming from the depths and dancing with the waves. They whispered about stars that fell from their homes in the (alleged) bruised sky and streaked to their deaths.
“Nonsense,” the sun thought. He pitied the little waves. There was only him. That was the only light he needed.