Back when we were kids our perspective was quite literary.
Clouds were made of fluffy feathers which had parted from lost birds, lightning cracked the skies and broke the latter with thunder, the wind was an angel’s whisper, crayons were simply made from the earwax of gnomes, and death was nothing but the gentlest sleep.
But growing up and rules and adults and cars and portable phones came along, replacing our imagination with charts and facts and taxes, turning the literary into the literal. And we try to recover; we attempt to recall that wonder, that amazing spark which had fallen from our pockets when we climbed the mountain of adulthood.
And here we are: on top, looking at the somber sky, the lifeless clouds — nothing more.