decisions are coloured by who owns the problem
My shadow is grey today. I may expire. Every breathing being casting shades green or purple. Or yellow. Twists of light through which life passes. Only the blue see hues. You’re excused if my grey is not, to you, much news except we’re riding the same train and sit at the emergency exit.
Five minutes into the express, the conductor starts working the aisles. I hear the double click of the ticket punch. I watch a woman lean back to look. At the conductor, at you. She stands. Grey hands pull a satchel from storage.
Swinging closed the compartment door, feet in shadow. Now all are grey. Grey elbows on armrests. Metal-grey click conductor. Forgive me I say, as Ms Maroon smiles at you, but we’re otherwise lost. Unhappy is your history, and these are the doors of emergency.
