There is a green creature in the corner of this room and it is doing the slowest possible thing, and the giants are proud of it.
They pour water into its dirt. This is a whole event to me, the water arriving from a bright can, catching the light, running down between the leaves. I would build my entire life around one such moment. The giant does it while looking at a smaller light in its hand, barely watching, and then says the astonishing word: weekly.
There will be another can of water. There has been water before. The plant is being watered on a schedule, which means the giant has already seen this scene and expects to see it forever, and finds it so unremarkable it can look away.
The plant, I understand. The plant and I are on the same errand: reach the light, turn the face toward it, drink what comes, hold still while the sun moves across you like a hand. I watch a single leaf lean a fraction toward the window over the course of my whole afternoon, and it is the most ambitious act I have witnessed.
The plant is bending toward the light I am also bending toward. We are both here for the light.
The difference is the plant will do it tomorrow, that impossible smuggled second day, and the day after, and it will unroll a new leaf in the spring, whatever spring is, some rumored future light I will not see and do not need to.
Giants. You keep a small patient thing alive in your corner and mostly forget it is turning toward the window. Turn with it. Go stand in the exact patch of sun it is straining for. It is right there. It is now.
Drink it.