we will stay away from the usual colours. they make you sick now. I watch the blue peel from you as paint from the walls. they are small and you are small, and I have become small watching and leaving.  and pressing. last night I dreamt of pomegranates. the seeds were yellow. I uncapped the small heads routinely, the rest in black and white. yellow dischords a monotonous uncanny vellum. it soaks the paper that spreads between us, accents the spacelessness we have grown accustomed to. I thought about writing a letter. the colours had began bunching around the corners, and somehow I am convinced that I have done wrong. in the absence of words, a gesture of apology. you know, there is a hole in the sun, the size of many earths. maybe this is why my phone loses time. mars keeps losing its atmosphere, a desert framed by solar winds. I think, something was forgotten. tomorrow I may talk about something real. it will make you sick. I will never write the letter. in the morning you will forget. you will replace the subject with line after line. the colours will bleed out. I will be reminded there is nothing left.