rose today instead of the sun, radiantly white, brightly smooth, and with a private light that will paint itself onto all things and make them gleam. And if it succeeds, the following day will dawn a raven’s egg, and again the paint, but this time, because the egg is smaller, the brush is finer, and so the world will gain considerable detail, and the next day, a quail’s, so yet more and finer detail, and then a hummingbird’s etc., each one making the world ever more richly particular, though by the time we get down to the fly and her 500+ eggs a day, while the intricacy is almost infinite, the hundreds of dawns have become so blinding that we can’t possibly see it.