Pale clouds - it's my first morning in Greece, and I'm thinking of your pale eyes. My brother sighs and then regrets what he's done - even a perfect host can't promise the sun. I sleep through all the afternoons; the time gap will be done with soon, and books and dreams can bring me home to you. This letter is an elevator ride for the tongue tied; on the inside I know what I want to say, but my face remains ashen. Can't these pale clouds carry me away?