Light is not the sun, and L is not the moon.
L is the winter sun, radiating a cool, white light. You cannot see exactly from where he shines, because he hides himself in the snowy clouds. He is blinding, all encompassing, cold. He uses the clouds as a shield, and a prism to refract and scatter his light. And though you will not know how far he is from the horizon, whether he is rising or setting, you will feel his light everywhere.
Light is the golden moon, the one you see on a rare night and admire as long as you can. His light is gentle and warm, the center of the night sky, shining brighter than even the stars. His golden colour a reflection of humanity's pollution, his light reflected from the sun.
He needs it, to be seen. For he has no light of his own, without the sun. And though you may see his golden light, hidden from humanity is his darkness, the shaded side of him he let's no one, not even the sun gaze upon. And should the sun go dark, its white light he spins gold dimmed, the shadows will encompass him, and he will fade away. Dead with the sun, just a gilded memory.
And should the golden moon disappear, the sun will not be able to have his light reflected warmly back at him, and he shall stand alone in the sky until he goes out in a great blaze.
And so they chase one another across the sky, catching up to eachother every so often to see eachothers glow.
