Driving in this morning in a spitty rain from low, thick clouds, the shreds and folds of which shone a deep and luminous blue from the morning twilight behind them. It pleased me. And then I caught myself.

Shame on me for enjoying a color. Or, for that matter, an image or a word. Walls and cars are colors. All colors are the same. And the rest.

I hate the clear blue sky. It's a palm pushing down, an extinguisher. We're small.