A small hole in the Venetian blind casts a shadow on the table of my finger about to press another lazy key. Silhouette in minute detail, fingerprint defined as washboard, Tiny hairs rendered as spider legs. No ordinary, fuzzy shadow here, as if the sun had lost its size. A dot it is, confined beside me. Constrained to a thin bright stream, A narrow sunbeam, casting edges of a finger in its path. If only I could reduce the light, squeeze the largeness of the orb, and cast an image so precise upon this cluttered screen. I don’t need a mass of sunny light to reveal the thing and make it clear, just a well placed pinhole in a Venetian blind.