The pages bleed a riot of colors.

Green for the most important, cannot-be-forgotten headings.

Yellow for the primary support and significant expounding.

Pink for the details, the lists, those forgotten all too quickly.

Orange for the rebuttals that prove that rules do have exceptions.

Blue for the basis and whatever’s different that’s left.

Almost everything bleeds, and next to nothing is left unscathed. Colors define and cage the sentences into categories that form a hierarchy. Green first, then yellow, orange is important but pink not as much, and blue must never be forgotten.

The paper is too thin to handle all the ink, as it seeps through everything. The pulp is not strong enough to hold the weight of a rainbow that’s too concrete to be effervescent, and far removed from its pot of gold. This is not the magic of light through rain. This is the explosion of need and play.

It is a riot—a no-holds barred fight to be vision that’s noticed, like a second-rate beauty pageant of vulgar neon colors. In the end, no one’s really beautiful because everyone’s just pretty. But it’s a flashy conundrum of sequined long gowns, neon-bright skimpy bikinis, and outrageous national costumes. It’s chaos.

It’s entropy that cunningly but effectively hides cosmos. You are green, and you go well with yellow. Pink must come after orange. Blue—blue just sprouts up when he’s needed. Because without this chaotic order, everything would just be lost in letter after word after sentence after paragraph after page.

And in the end, you realize you’ve read nothing at all.

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