You can almost hear the click, in the dark, in the heart, in the silence. A note, then another, flows over the crowd, a wave sliding up the sandcastle wall, washing it down to nothing, taking it back to the sea; this pearl of a note, repeated into a strand by the velvet breath, the long boned fingers and the flash of gold trumpet that joins them. It’s not as if black was a color, it was a thing you either touched or didn’t, not by mood but on principle, the kind associated with flags and floats, cowgirls on horseback their legs spread over the muscled spine of a black quarter horse, just a color, not a thing. How that music swarmed like something soft, a breeze of butterflies, the gentle beginning of a wild, hot sirocco when the dust settles in layers of new skin over the African coast. Movement happens, a slight swaying of hips when lovers dance. Music ceases to be a thing, becomes a force, irresistible under a black moonless sky. The first time I touched color, a strangeness that startled by its innocence, its simple matter of fact – black – the first time color touched me, startled by its electricity, by the contrast, innocence, and the lie – not a thing, just color, the way music is a strand of pearls.
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