There’s someone who paints the sky, with their eyes, each day, every way. They’re alone now, today, every day, some ways. They had a wife/husband and friends/children but now they’re all gone (you lived too long, just one more song).
The red paint arrives in the morning or early evening (suppliers work strange hours).
They always have a surplus of blue, white and grey (massive store room).
So they sit, each day, and try to remember the colours that once made it move.