Dear Trillium.

Dear Trillium. The sun doesn't show here during the day. Instead, a dreary shade of grey paints the landscape with equal creativity to that of a dribbling foal running chalk against a loose dirt floor. The sky is also of equal creativity. Not even the clouds feel as if they are out of line, painting a near smooth canvas on the ethereal above. It's almost as if you could reach up and paint a line on them from upon the mesa in the distance. I have a feeling such things would be inane, if not fruitless.