Beauty grants a thing its own significance. Daybreak here has none. No pastel herald of the approaching Sun, like the horizons of far lost Earth. No splendid bloom from black sky to blue. Just a sudden harsh frill behind the mountains, and then the protruding glare of this system’s firegold star. Brightness that batters the landscape, and skewers off the lakes of sludge, and breeds bristling shadows in the rockfields. Light that blasts scattered components and denatures errant plastics and sets particles of it all asail, memoryless, into the hollow sky. Time is a carnivore, and order is its meat.