In dreams, the world is bruise purple. The anxiety logic unfolds, all unstoppable alarms and unknowable deadlines. I wait in line at the airport, where the security guards demand a pint of blood, but I am all out. Shouting nonsense, running through crowds.
I awake to hazy blue. Morning light through thin curtains. Clear cold skies. Songless birds on the black iron fire escape and the harsh sun above.
Black coffee, softened to brown by white milk. Red eyes. Pale face in the mirror. Silver razor. A drop of crimson blood on my chin.
The yellow of an egg yolk, inviting and comforting. Slowly dripping onto toast. Raspberry jam. Cream-colored butter.
White clouds outside, distant and heavy. The black street and the gray sidewalk. Red brick. White lines on the ground.
I am soul tired. Mourning before the death. Wishing I could stop thinking. Focusing on colors, little sentences, fictions and exercises. Trying to keep the darkness at bay.