I allowed the wintry sun to slither through, but only softly, at a slant, so that its cadence trickled between the blades and settled melodiously in the corner, blanketed the carpet like a fresh sheet, pure as morning ice. It sprawled among the softer shadows, itself subdued and hesitant, several grades of shade. It congealed and pooled, a glacial flow, but could not penetrate the darker recesses.
I only halfway cracked the blinds. Gingerly, with thumb and forefinger, I twisted the hanging, metallic rod one-quarter of a turn, one-eighth of a turn(the tiny, plastic cogs responded to shift the axle, to angle the flaps), to admit a little of the day awaiting, for it clamored just beyond, murmured with a will, so that I could not help but acquiesce and watch the morning coils drape themselves, an entity which occupied a portion of the room–but intruded only so far.