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everything that I speak of devoids of color, life itself becomes a paralytic, am I in love? am I not? am I well? do I think the way I am supposed to? why am I so dull in the face of the sweet richness of existence? all day long, I read and read, I devour books the way an infant is unable to eat or drink anything other than its mother’s milk and yet, the more and more that I do read, the more I realize that I know nothing! the entirety of my existence could be comfortably sized within not even the curved edges of a letter or symbol, much less a word, phrase, a sentence. I am so terribly unaware of that which surrounds me, nurtures me, I cannot even discern the individual fingers, the calluses, nails, of the hand that feeds me, that massages sleep away from my eyes like the pitting of an olive, of a cherry, I know nothing yet am terribly inconsiderate of that which wants to know me!