The rain softly patted on the window...
A warm mug of steaming coffee in my hand...
The steam obscured my vision and by blowing it  the cold swiftly took its place...

As I exhaled,  the air escaped my lips,  giving  me a classic feeling of having just smoked...
But this obscured my vision...
"One cannot see air but just feel it", we were taught when we were young still...
And yet it was the air which won't let me read my book today...

Today I didn't need a song to be played in the background... The rhythm of the drops was perfect...

Matching my pace... 

Of sipping coffee? 
Of the words I read? 
Of the trees that swayed?
Either all of them or none...

Through my little window,  I observed the world...
The grey world...
Turning grey...
Right in front of me...

And I held the paints... The pallet... The brushes...

The picture as a whole was beautiful...
If you concentreted enough,  you could differentiate the colours used... 

But when you still haven't removed your gaze... And now the shades just perfectly blend in... There are no colours,  nor are there the shades
And yet the picture never seemed incomplete...

The rain now raced further...
The mug now empty...
The book, its last few pages...

And for a moment,  just for a moment,  the perfect evening vanished...
The pages fluttered...
Out of my control...
Giving me a chill...
A momentary shudder...
And it all surfaced again...
Just for a moment...