In the world of white, I sleep to chase the day away.
But if I could glimpse a vein of blue cracking the sky in two, my pupils would dilate and eyelids stretch, my neurons sparking in accord.
What color lives in my brain, that causes such dysphoria with reality?
If spring were heaven, an eternal garden, I'd long for the decay of autumn.
But in death I'd likely find peaceful winter, white and eternal; in the world of white I sleep to chase away death.