The morning slipped its finger beneath my door one day, painting the grays of twilight as chocolate browns and dandelion yellows. The carpeting, once a lifeless peach of some kind, became a field of periwinkles, dappled with pinks and highlighted by violets. The ceiling fan’s shadow became the slow, sultry spin of an aging windmill, the sails flying as surely as they had at the beginning of its time, a figure of perpetual strength. And the changing screen ribboned into life, its picture of the countryside becoming a fantastical land where unicorns might graze beside a giggling stream and dragons might fly with the butterflies. So the day began as many days do and don’t, and my eyes were blessed to see.