The blue fingers of dawn worm their way through the blinds. Their careful fingertips turn over every crack and crevice in the room, looking for the shadows. Adamant, the fingers root out the remnants of not-yesterday and not-today. Dawn’s prying is most unwelcome to those who wish to remain out-of-time, those who meet the Dawn in her half-light but not the day. As a parting gift to the weary, the fingers wind up the clock in every watch, phone, and stove timer before releasing their grip and evaporating into the sunrise. Time resumes. Another day.