I’m on the train looking out the window. There is a huge reach of oyster-grey clouds across the sky. The sun is still edging its way from the horizon and I can’t see it for the houses. But it’s catching the clouds at leery angles and the whole morning is a painting of pink and orange brush strokes, yellow ink wash and wiped charcoal. I’m in the grubby outskirts of Melbourne and this is somehow, impossibly, beautiful.