How to express the colors; from the inside they flow - liquid light staining the emotional state and straining at the physical boundaries of human comprehension. For this exercises words are to be used sparingly and the mind even less. It is a job for the fingers for they must trip over the correct keys. It is now their job to make mistakes sound like music and letters fall into terrifying, life shattering order.

Do you hear that whistle?

As the prints falls it leaves impressions in the dust that was once the desert of their minds. It is not water, it does not feed the parched landscape of human thought because there are no seeds to be nourished. It is a bombshell and the impression it leaves will only collect inspirational debris.

Can you smell the heat?

That is the scorched sand turned to glass. It is transparent and fragile and when another letter hits the mind it will shatter leaving scars in it's wake.

And where are the colors? Why are their loss lamentable? Ink is black, parchment is white, but you and I and the tree sitting in the middle of the room are not. I am pink and yellow and blue. The tree is green. You are ? What do we share but a trunk and, perhaps, some limbs? The tree has more limbs than it knows what to do with so it reaches for everything but never touches anything.

Napoleon is a pastry.

I am a thought...I am not even substantial enough to eat. Perhaps if I conquer France I will become a pen. A worthy pursuit if I do say so myself. And I shall produce black ink and smell of metal and dirt and people will stain their fingers with my blood and thoughts.