Black

So many things are black. I could list them: the licorice that I am eating; the jeans that I am wearing; my motorcycle helmets; the untouched face of my mobile phone; the mouse and audio leads running into my computer; the keys on my computer; the magnetic back of a promotional card; the top of a pen; the handles on my keys; and the speakers through which I am playing music late this Tuesday evening. Listening to Hole – Live Through This. Holes are black as well. The night is black. My features, reflected dimly in the kitchen glass, are black. The hands on the clock are black. All manner of text on all manner of accumulated receipts, envelopes and printed pieces of paper is black. The bottom of one particular sheet close to me shows the code “1A-Ack-0813”. Everywhere I look is black. To see black is to recognise the point at which visibility and invisibility coincide. It is to fly across the rooftops like an insane and cackling witch.