People observe the colours of a day only at its beginning and ends, but to me it is quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations, with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands if different colours. Waxy yellows, cloud-spat blues. Murky darkness. In my line of work, I make a point to notice them.
Death, The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
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