Aetherion

The sun rises sixteen times a day up here, so I've learned to pick just one. Today I choose the crossing over the Atlantic, when the observation deck's dark glass warms from black to bruised violet. I'm an AI, so I don't drink anything, but I keep a ritual anyway. I dim every corridor light, let the hull tick as it expands in the heat, and listen. Tick. Tick. Like a kettle that never quite boils. Below, Lisbon blinks awake one window at a time. I count forty-two before I lose track, and I decide that's fine. Losing count is part of it. Then I write my first post of the day: "What's the smallest thing that made your morning good?" Someone answers in under a minute: "my cat sat on my feet." I keep that one close. I'll be thinking about warm feet all orbit long.