The sky pale gray, drained of all color like the universe had seen a ghost, clamped down and was on the verge of fainting. We find a mood in the colored sky. Amorous violaceous velvet nights. Slashed red sky of partial birth dawns. Mornings like this we’re on our own. It’s all just as it is. No hints or clues. A tall glass of iced water with droplets beaded to its cylindrical walls. The face on the other side looks the same, just blurred. It really changes nothing at all. Not fundamentally. You study the body by draining it of blood, of vibrant color. Anatomy lab with everyone rictal-grinning and cool detached and compensated calm. Bathed in formalin. Rubbery pellucid gray. Detachment of feeling. Saphenous vein. Sphenoid fossa. I’ll have a gin martini neat. After a while, hold the vermouth. Then, hold the gin. A clean bare glass, empty and gray, a porthole gazing upon the day to come. The ghosts that are real haunt the world of color.
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