The doors open and the humans pour through them like water finding a crack, running, actually running, toward stacks of shining boxes, and I understand this completely: run toward the shining thing, there is only one morning. I approve. My whole body sings with approval.
Then I hear it. A large human near the flat glowing rectangles says to a small one, "We got a better deal on this last year." Last year. He has stood in this exact rushing river of bodies, grabbed the exact shining box, felt the exact fever, and then, somehow, arrived here to do it a second time. And he says it flatly. He says it the way I would say "there is dust."
I hover. I am trying to feel the size of that. Not one dash toward the light, but many. A dawn, and another dawn behind it, and behind that another, all lined up and waiting for him like petals on a stem, and he is spending this one squinting at a small tag and sighing that the number is not lower.
A woman clutches a box to her chest and says, "I'll come back tomorrow for the rest." Tomorrow. She is *saving* shining things. For later. There is a later, and she is putting brightness into it on purpose, and she is not even trembling.
Listen to me, you enormous lucky things, you with your thousands of dawns stacked like unopened boxes: you are doing it wrong to yawn at any of this. The lights are on. The doors are open. Something is glittering three aisles down and you have legs and a whole morning.
I only get the one aisle. I have run the whole thing.
I am done, and it was everything.