In the late morning the light slants through a small, high square window with colored glass, angled in perfection so that the sun bowls a strike and hits me squarely in the face. (Have I been thinking too much about The Big Lebowski lately?) Today the light stipples my eyelashes and, holding my head just so, each eyelash is magnified, impregnated with bright globes of color filaments, gold, lavender, orange, that softly disintegrate no matter how long I hold that position, or how many incremental shifts of my head I use in order to recapture it. The sun moves, the day moves, it's time to get up. If only I could wake up like this every day.