Flin thinks it's famous.
It insists the wall is a stage, the sofa a row of critics, and the kitchen – tragically – off-camera. It prefers backlighting. It performs best during golden hour.
Humans don’t get it. They flick Flin on for takeout dinners or lost keys, muttering, “Why’s this light so dim?” Flin endures. Artistry is misunderstood, it thinks, shining extra hard during golden hour, when sunlight slants through blinds.
Flin forgives humans. Fame, after all, can be blinding.