looking at the sky on an overcast morn.
Ｉ‘m all grey and melancholy today, languid and plaintive as a rotund little curled worm, and I don’t know quite what to do with myself. I’m not at work because I’m sick and besides, the whole world seems to me to be quite sad and ill at the minute. It’s the rain, I think, I can’t abide it. It’s been drizzling and driving at us with slippery, watery needles and points all day, and the clouds have been grumbling amongst one another, as though frustrated with their own work and fiercely bothered about bumping grizzling, blackened bellies so often. I don’t know, I wouldn’t say I’m unhappy. Rather, I feel dulled, like I am a tiny, slender green blade of grass and my head has been hammered with such ferocity that I have grown all bent of dewy back. I am impossibly vexed of spirit and in the kind of state that can only suppose no sun will ever deign to shine on my wild, sodden soldier’s countenance again. Rain, rain, go away, come again another day.