On this day, I would like to tell you this, I would like to tell you that it is still a grey sky, but not a deep or story-ful grey sky, just a grey sky, grey that wants to be white, grey that has neither hatred nor joy, grey that has no feeling, grey that has no memory. It is a grey that thinks it is white, but grey that is grey, without redemption. It is morning sky, for I am a morning writer, I do not think I write words under afternoon skies, and certainly not under evening ones! That is incorrect, I write many words under evening skies, I have books full of them, but they are never for anybody but myself, these under-the-evening-sky words I write in fragments. If you wish to see the grey sky that I am speaking to you about, then I suggest you peer into the white screen that surrounds these grey words, and I think you will find it there, you will find a background exactly like the morning sky outside my window, which is two stories high and the size of a very large garage door, so you see, I am confronted with a lot of this grey sky that is not even grey it is white!