Blue.

It had been a long time since I'd seen the dawn. At one end of the skya line of blue appeared, and like blue ink on a piece of paper it spread slowly across the horizon. If you gathered together all of the shades of blue in the world and picked the bluest, the epitome of blue, this was the colour you would choose. I rested my elbows on the table and looked at that scene, my mind blank. When the sun showed itself over the horizon, that blue was swallowed up by ordinary sunlight. A single cloud floated above the cemetery, a pure white cloud, its edges distinct. A cloud so sharply edged you could write on it. A new day had begun. But what this day would bring, I had no idea.

-Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun.