Yellow is just the late afternoon light on the pines. Perhaps to the sea, traveling by midnight like secret schooners across the winded sky just above the knitted brow of the grassy hill where I have come to see the show for free. Blue is a few hushed, strummed, clandestine guitar chords, evoked so quietly that a monk walking in the hallway passes by undisturbed. Or maybe it's just the redheaded woodpecker I watch by the lake moving above from here to there, chirping crossly at the life he's been given, constantly beating his head against a wall. Pink is the painted underbelly of the clouds on a Gethsemani Saturday night at six o'clock.
Vespers are over.
It's time for supper. Warm burgundy is the nap I take after breakfast on my single bed. And yes, I want to write it all down. Ideas wise and otherwise. But I mostly want to listen with no end in mind.