Don’t get me wrong – I still love the color black. It is a color very close to, albeit not of my, heart. Some people say it is not a color. I say those people aren’t people. Given that I have such an illicit relationship with the color black, it is rare that I even flirt with colors.
Certain colors do claim to have the seductive powers to lure me, but I still insist on making stringent demands of them. I want my colors to do something, to be something special, something specific for me…
I want my yellow to be egg yolk yellow…
I want my green to be the color of the grass on this side…
I want my brown to be coffee bean brown…
I want my purple to be the color a bruise turns after 3 days…
I want my red to be wine red…
I want my maroon to be the color of the robes of Buddhist monks…
I want my blue to be the color of the song that Pearl Jam plays…
I want my orange to be the color the sky turns in the night when it is just about to rain…
I want my white to be the color of the pages of an old book…
I want my gray to be the color of cigarette smoke that Uma Thurman exhales in Pulp Fiction…
Oh and I love gum-ball machines…
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