I don't know why I always had the impression that mornings were hellishly and unbearably bright. That the rising sun was a dramatic blazing ball of gaudy gold, and it beamed irritably and set the whole sky on an unstoppable fire.

Mornings are in fact, a dull cool blue, as if still harping on the residues of night, and clinging on to its velvet kisses. Its breaths are very soft and very white, and its dreams are a blur of pink.