An old film runs on television. Half 

drowsy I knock on the screen. A door 

opens. And I enter. A task of adding colors 

is given to me by someone who couldn't

complete it in her dream. The joy of coloring 

behaves like an arc elongated back to childhood   

simplicity: crude green to foliage, eclipsed

black to chimney smoke stains, classy

brown to the mowing street cow. This is 

so much like imparting definitions to sleep 

through dreams. I hold a palette and in the 

gratitude for being granted permission I

begin to color each thing I touch. Everything 

measuring up to something with an imbibed 

value. Tables, chairs, walls, vases, menu 

cards. The scene is inside a restaurant at 

the first minute of pre-dawn. Outside the 

stars slouched for beauty. A mice appears 

from an unseeked corner. I offer it an errorless 

white shade. Gracing colors to everything I 

stumbled on the cuneate of air, emptiness,

and silence. Suddenly, a thought came to me : 

Does my presence commit a violence and static 

the process of them running to each other. 

My thinking blooms in their amalgamation 

a river of anonymous words. The moment 

I lift my brush the colors slip into a void 

from where nothing emerges, how much 

I try. Both the film and my drowsiness 

ended and so did my trials carried by 

convection currents of a thing whose 

color is as sad as the sight of a door 

closing. I open my eyes. A pleasant day 

sending an invitation. Sun yearning to be 

taken with serious beauty, soft music 

trembling in the air like an answer.