Sunny days are brilliant, literally. And they are gorgeous and clear and warm and they allow all of the colors of the world to show themselves off in full effect. But I have always loved a grey sky morning. There is a lot of character in a collection of soft, pillowy clouds interspersed with dark, ominous ones whom threaten to shower upon me at any given moment. The anticipation of rain, the grey cast on the world that forces you to see the mundane rather than the ostentatious, this is beautiful. And as I feel the strong gusts of wind just before the clouds can hold their water no longer, wind that billows my clothes and tousles my hair, a pleasant change to the fickle sun which will warm you before it burns you, I feel exhilarated. I feel alive.