Morning. Before everything remembers what it is. This perfect solitude, when the soul is naked, the flesh is asleep, and the dreams start to wither. The sky, that perfect grey pastel, dingy but lovely. It is its own naked shadow. The undressed trees, waiting for rain, thirsty for refreshment. You can smell it, breathing beyond the hills, exhaling its wet breath.
No music, no strand of cultured voices, just a stillness; drink in the sky as it unwrinkles its colors, from grey to a pale nothing canvas. Grey and black, the only two colors.
And then the day breaks, cracks open like an egg, a rose yoke, a dim purple froth. And the flesh becomes real again.