The Big Hand came to clean my slate and move me to a higher state The greatest dream I ever had, I once died a happy man.
     —Frank Atom

As I type this statement, I’m wearing a multi-coloured bracelet made by a four-year old child. Its beads are brightly hued and organically shaped, except for a boxy white bead bearing a black “J.”

We are used to reading black text on white backgrounds. It’s cheap to print and easy to read.

The only part of my life that occurs in black and white is my writing and reading habit. I do not feel, think, kiss, dream, or live without colour. Why do I write that way? Why the constraint?

Would I write differently if I flipped the colours of my word-processing program with every new document?

If black is the absence of colour (life), are words dead?

If so, I once died a happy man.