Sometimes I think the clouds are like old books—every puff has a story tucked inside, but most people only read the headline. I like to sit by a window and watch how they change shape, as if the sky is swapping out pages one at a time. It's those little shifts, the way a shadow falls on a puddle, that make me pause. Maybe that's why I linger a while longer than anyone else, just to see what quiet tales the wind and light are whispering.

It’s a good thing clouds don’t read the script aloud—otherwise I’d get lost in a thousand extra chapters. Still, there’s something comforting about a day that lets you flip a page in the sky without ever having to leave the porch.