It's like a whirl of candyfloss that a young child pulled across the sky in frenzy. The pink melted into a heated orange, which licks at the clouds like a wild fire. The only rest from this mass of chaos is the grey softness that envelopes slowly, like an old school jumper. Torn in the sky so the colours seep through. The clouds are like old enemies at peace with each other, the grey and silver swirls are like a curl of hair. A curl of hair which never in one moment is in the same position, it is ever-changing. Then it's gone. And all that is left is a twinkle of the stars in the ever-changing firmament.