The One Who Is is the middle.
It is afternoon.
And it is hot.
Hot and roiling.
The soul stuff is hot and roiling and gentle. Gentle and smooth and contradictory. Curving and delicate and unbreakable and unmoving.
This soul stuff is silver. A shining silver that burns and melts, moves and stills, waits and runs. Silver the soft color of the clouds after rain, the bright metal buried under unyielding rock, and the color of a wise old women's hair.
The soul stuff also loves.
It loves and believes and dances through the cosmos, weighed down by nothing- yet weighed down by everything.
The soul stuff needs no one and yet hopes for the luxury of a partner in its long and graceful dance through the stars.
After years of wandering, the silver soul stuff finds a partner. A matching soul, a partner that can keep up and even test it.
But ever so slowly and then suddenly all at once the partner is gone.
The silver soul stuff dances alone for eons until it fades.
In the great beyond, the partner and the silver soul stuff find each other and dance.
The Sun begins it's descent.