Remember fingerpainting? I was quite the little Picasso with those pots of squidgy, gooey tempera paint. I seem to recall that every masterpiece would lead to a stage at which all the colors bled into grand whorls and swirls of cobalt blue and deep, ruddy black. Sure bits of green or red would peep through, but who really cared by that point?
The more I think about it, the more I'm fascinated by the color blue–by its endless variety of shades, and its funny way of transitioning into black without our notice until it's too late. Like a twilight sky that slips into night, or violet eyes that draw you in until you're lost down the center of the pupils and you're never coming back. Or if you do, you're bruised. Black and blue.