When the lights are down it’s bright, enough to walk around in. If they’re purposely placed, flashed behind a stage, it hurts. They don’t, won’t match, as the key of a major clashes with the color wheel and couldn’t feel like London in sepia.

One time, they cried. Red, blue, green between parentheses. It was like hands caressing sadness from the heart’s mind. Surprising since always before, scraped off the the floor, amazed. Watching wept. Indelible as fingerprints, names, or deleted poems roaming, running down a cheek.

Meet kaleidoscopes, mobiles, prisms, squinting oil, water, and acrylic paints that dilute as they attempt to connect. Gin and tonics, midnight shades, a minor, a voice, eyes in a corner highlight to blinding. Finding the screen without a touch.

Bluntly, stare at a lightbulb or lighted shape, then turn around and blink. See? Add music, movement, streaks, blobs, morphing with the sound of notes and emotion. Mendelssohn’s feathers, blue’s satin sheets, Clapton’s springs, and everything else that sings.



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