* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The Next Day The clouds were arranged as neatly as child's toys, scattered over blue, content to drift where they fell. The morning sun had the potential to bring a day as hot as yesterday, but those wonderful puffs of white radiated it back out into space. On this cloudy morning there are growing patches of blue, the sort of hue that is soft and bright at the same time. Though beneath the sheet of cloud is a grey that deepens to steel, the leading edge is a brilliant white, as if it is the pages of a new

