God and the sky

God and the sky He paints, and his repertoire of colors, the size of his paintbrush, and the color combinations on his palette are infinite. He paints by drawing the sun across the horizon; he paints by sprinkling the sky with a handful of clouds; afternoon, as usual, is an orphan; it belongs to no one; so he also has a siesta, rising up to paint the evening sky with wonderful hues. and the scene, the hue, everything changes by the seconds—if you have blinked your eye, you are going to miss the symphony. I like the evening sky more than the morning sky—huge molten pots of gold, from yellow to brilliant red—he brings out his whole paintbox. The morning sky is more benign—meditative, still rubbing its eyes as the gentle morning breeze plays with the clouds, arranging and rearranging them like a jigsaw puzzle. While the evening sun before settling down to sleep always sheds a tear at the follies of humans with the promise of a better tomorrow, Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storms, but to add colour to my sunset sky." But actually, we in this technological era have forgotten to look up, to feel, and to smell—the technological brilliance of the blue screen has replaced the natural brilliance of the blue sky.

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