Six Hues In Pastel.
She said she felt blue—coursing through her veins like a matrix pill on steroids, but oddly enough, she hated haute society. She’d reached the end and saw it wasn’t true, so she stole it from the rainbow to make up for the lost time and the false promises of pots brimming with pure gold. Then there were six. Six hues in pastel. Six colours were left behind, so the rains fell even harder—through the looped holes in the fine prints of Noah’s Flood Treaty—they fell, and just kept falling. In the meantime as she spoke, I could see it’d tardily flooded the nucleus of her eyes, and I was slowly drowning, inside of them. Then it finally made sense. ‘So that’s why’, I thought to myself. ‘That’s why they’re that colour—the colour of the lights that power the ocean’. I grabbed myself a lifejacket, took her by the hand, then said: ‘Well darling, I feel… yellow. I feel just like the noon sky — hugged and kissed by the sun’s rays. Come. Let us replenish the rainbow with some green tea leaves, freshly picked, from the finest fields of ripened olive branches’.
