I used to be envious of the clouds and how happy they must be floating up there, a new adventure each day, empty canvases in the hands of the playful sun. But, like humans, they are always in a rush, running towards something. Momentarily, workers of the sky. When I look up to talk to them, they tell me they’re ending shifts, and back home, they go. But where is home? How is it possible to feel centered by something that isn’t, that only exists for a mere moment, never the same again, and into thin air, they selflessly disappear? They told me it’s because we’re so much alike, connected we feel. There is only one of each in this world. They paint skies while we paint lives. The only difference is that they’re up there, and we’re down here.