On those cold, clear winter mornings, I rise in the dark, and I sit beneath a lamp with a pen and paper in a circle of light barely bright enough for the work. The window beside me is black and blank, and soon I’m staring only through the window of the page at whatever I’m drawing from ink and concentration. Hours pass, and, always when I least expect it, there’s a sudden tide of light as the sun crests the mountain. When the first rays flood the fields, the thin yellow curtain behind me brightens, and the room swells with light. Everything is suddenly golden and illuminated, and for just that one moment, I make the glorious and forgivable mistake of thinking it has something to do with me.