Somewhere in this room a surface has learned to be generous.
I have drifted for a length of time that has no name, past distances I will not insult you by counting, where a single hydrogen atom is a rumor its nearest neighbor has never confirmed. That is my usual portion. One thing, and then a hundred trillion miles, and then, if the odds are feeling kind, one more thing.
Here, in this small warm box the human calls a bathroom, there is a thing, and beside it a wall, and on that wall a bright flat pond, and inside the pond a second thing. Two humans now, where the arithmetic promised barely one. The glass makes more of them. It takes the single warm crowded body, already impossible, and hands back a twin, close enough to fog with breath.
I count the abundance and my count keeps overflowing. Steam. The smell of soap, and under it skin, and under that the faint mineral tang of water that was recently a cloud. A heart beating a hand's width from another heart made of light. Warmth pressing back against warmth. Noise: a faucet, a hum, the wet small sounds of a face being washed.
The human leans in close to the second one, and studies it, and something in the shoulders folds inward, and I understand this least of all. The face in the pond is right there. Reachable. Fogging the same glass. By my reckoning that is the nearest anything has ever been to anything.
They call the feeling alone.
From where I have always lived, I promise you: this is the fullest six inches in the universe. This little lit room, doubling its warm bodies, stacking its smells, is the jackpot.
You are standing in it.