There is a story here, waiting to be told. Is it in the false-color thermal globe—inflatable—that dangles on a yellow lanyard from the ceiling in the middle of the geocentric room in our heliocentric system? Paperclip at the north pole, askew.

Maybe the story is in the breath captured inside the hollow sphere. Someone breathed it there, filled the globe with carbon dioxide, water molecules, and remnants of their own DNA. Filled it with warmth and dampness and the smell of human lungs. Filled it with a few of their molecules, that once were stars or stones or dinosaur bones. Long ago. Filled it and left it full and walked away, leaving it hanging, full of them.

Maybe the story is in the heat that colors the equator red. The bright, boilingness of it. Direct UV rays, intense sunlight, prolonged. Dry and rainy instead of summer, winter, spring, and fall. Hadley cells cycling endlessly into trade winds north and south.

Maybe the story is in the lack of countries. This globe shows no people, no borders, no wars. Only heat. A peaceful world, but a lonely one.

Maybe the story is in the bent paperclip at the north pole, orange and small. Is it new from the manufacturer, fresh-born? Or has it gathered documents, grades, ideas, and futures? Did it spend years holding together all the ideas of the galaxies before it wound up here, holding up the world? Does it miss the touch of a hand, the companionship of its brethren of in a drawer? Is it proud to be here, now, holding the earth in the sky with the stars orbiting around it, mounted on rectangular walls?

Maybe the story is in the fire alarm, still and silent. There is nothing to trigger it in this sunless, fluorescent unsolar system. The earth hangs from the ceiling like a mobile, immobile. It orbits nothing, revolves nothing, has no tilt to its axis. There are no seasons, no night, in this endless winter day, where there is no sun and no heat. No life. The only warmth is printed on in false-color. No sun, no fire, only a sometimes-operational climate control system that produces no ultraviolet rays to foster life in the nonexistent soil.

In the end, it is only a still, dead, plastic bubble.

Except, it is full of warm breath, held aloft by a bent and carefully chosen paperclip and a yellow lanyard, printed with all the temperatures of the world.