The sky is like a painting without the substance of colour.
It is a two-dimensional whitewash.
It is a con artist depriving us of the leisure of vastness.
It fails to deliver the fluid crux of its magical scenes.
The fight against the insanity of ordinary life is a defining factor of ordinary life.
This turbulent sky, these strange admixtures, these creases of light.
They capture it all in the briefest flurry of the day.