Orange!

In the screeched symphony of cursive love the ebonimous violas strum their swan songs.

The nervous bows in shivering fits dot the dark with disdainful disobedience and the breathless flute is but the sound of a scratched nail on a blackboard.

There is a Wagnerian march of drums like bullet holes in a gossamer - a lover's doe eyed present promptly tossed aside.

The chorus is incoherent like a sanguine arabesque over surprised charcoal and wails of individual incompetence fill up the ambiance like confused lines of graphite in a novice's sketch.

I am searching, in this staccato, for that little note of assurance, that one single pure crisp nod of familiarity. In the sea of disfigured, bobbing, cacochromic monstrosity there must be svelte orange streak, but it's so hard to find.

And it has happened before, I remember. That metaphorical orange streak of lost memories has preserved in its embrace entirely different drawings - beautiful perfect drawings in my mind but which always melted away when their feathered edges met the iron fist of reality.

You know how, in the mind's eye, mountains are perfect triangles, rivers perfect splines, houses perfect clown hats and Sun a perfect circle... And how that orange streak is perfectly beautiful, smart and loving? Huh...