Statue

I squat by the toppled Statue and finger the pieces morosely. Did I build him too grand? Did I build him too immaculate? Perhaps I should not have built him at all. What did I do wrong? Now do I build a smaller, humbler Statue from the remains, or do I remake him in all his fullness? 

The landscape is littered with pieces of broken stone. In the distance the sun hovers, a circle of inscrutable, yawning blackness, both too near and too far at the same time. It draws nearer with every moment, imperceptible, until I get distracted, and when I turn back—it is frighteningly near. And at the same time too far, wretchedly far. 

The toppled Statue stands, or lays, by the Marble Ruins. I approach the Marble Ruins. I kneel down, and pick up a piece of marble. Until the sun arrives I toil away, repairing what I can, all the while hoar frost forms; maybe I can find some warmth tonight. Maybe the sun will finally arrive. I gaze longingly at it. But it does not respond, it will never respond. 

What about the Statue? I do not know. I do not know what I did wrong. I do not know what to do.