He woke up at exactly six-thirty a.m., rested, fresh, and perfectly lucid.
He got up, went and opened the shutters, and looked outside.
Calm sea, flat as a table, and a clear sky, blue with a few small white clouds, that looked as if it had been painted by a Sunday painter and put there as decoration. A decidedly anonymous day, but he liked it precisely because of its lack of character.
-Andrea Camilleri, A Voice in the Night: An Inspector Montalbano Mystery