How many vulgarities of red in the passage to null? Harsh, undisciplined strokes of color overlapping and smudged, from cherry to maroon, blending, bleeding. The pain was negligible, eventually. Dark sparks of light, and then nothing but an afterburn of floating images, ghosts, shadows in an impermanent twilight, fading, falling, until even light became memory. Imprisoned colors released into darkness.
I could taste them in the back of my throat, turquoise and brown, sage and violet, crimson and amber, all gone now, all gone. Black at the top-and-bottom of black, without depth or shape. How long before I forget there were colors? I could still hear them, and they sounded like wet hands pounding on trash cans, slapping nonsense rhythms, a blare of disruptive tin voices. And they smelled like licorice and blistered leather, vinegar and dry riverbeds. Colors, all gone, once proclaimed in the tongue of a dead language.