The clouds are as grey as my mood, sunk low to the horizon and fat with themselves. I am such a fickle beast. I should see the differing gradations of light, the way it interplays over surface making it darker here, lighter there, silver in places and in others so bright as to be almost white. I should see the textures, the thinness of some clouds sailing beneath the darker, heavier ones. I should appreciate the wonder that it is merely water vapour, that I could fall through it effortlessly, that all I am seeing is an opaqueness caused by water in the air. But I see none of these things. I see a grey, unhappy mass and know that this reflects only my limited, self-involved perception. Like the man with the blue guitar, I do not see things as they are.