He tried to write but nothing came, and in early morning of day, he walked outside, into world. The rising sun covered fast and low behind moving sheet of clouds. Above and to west, sky was layered in gray and lavender wash as if broad-waved brushstrokes from south and into north. Within the tapestry and texture, holes of lighter gray shone, circles that changed and shaped in expansion and recess from mysteries in sky.
Lightning flashed, silent and brilliant in streaks that stayed among the clouds as drone of cricket songs kept in the morning air.
He prayed to the view, wooden rosary returned and found at bedside night before, and he prayed the mysteries as sky changed and rain arrived, faint and soft beginning as woven cast of darker grays and lavenders drew near.
A strange but beautiful morning: he continued prayer and reflections on the mysteries. Only after, did words reveal.