I think I am unbecoming brightly.
I remember a dream: I am on an island with oily black rat creatures with long noses and a village of deep-sea divers. The ocean is deep beyond the island, and, diving deep, we come up with tiny orbs of bright myriad colors. Channeling my will through the colors, the rat creatures become flower-headed creatures of a thousand shapes.
Interpret. The rats are words, black and slippery-without-context. The colors from deep in the sea are the passions of deep-in-the-mind; retrieve them, and the words are imbued with color, and take a thousand mad-beautiful shapes.
Fading to grey. I am losing even the black to write these feeble sentences, the orange to cry out in dread.
Where have the colors gone?
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