A tiny, little dot balanced itself on the edge of the windowsill. I could see it – I swear I could – brace itself against the gentle breezes of the cat’s breath, and the furious assailment of sunbeams. If it had fingertips, it was using them to grasp the rim, using tiny little biceps and triceps and miscellaneous other ceps to maintain its survival grip. Why was it so scared to fall? Do all dots quiver at the thought of heights, or, more exactly, big heights quickly becoming small ones and then no height at all? I guess life for a dot is better above ground.