I see orange, wax skipping white sheets, but smearing autumn over an open season. I see orange, and it is calm, but robust, rambunctious with a knife. Orange, the color, the crayon, my little pink fingers drawing pompous lines, connecting the mind’s eye. And then eyes, the orange lids like peelings from the skin. They are triangles, upside down like the madman’s costume, its fangs, the mouth wide, swallowing a melon of flame. I see orange as I press hard. Chunks of wax fall off in my excitement. My friends giggle around me. Grabbing for black, I tear down the paper wrapping, greased like last night’s pizza box, and tilt the stick at an angle to shade the sockets, to darken the depths of the throat. The color is sharp, more chunks, and then soft as
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