Death is a funny color, I awaken every morning to a variety of death. It is inescapable, especially if I happen to catch a reflexion of myself in the glistening of the foggy, glossy skim which floats languidly on the top of the bowl.

I have begun amusing myself writing with little entries into my porridge and then pulling myself back into consciousness but I stand ready at any moment. It’s cream of wheat at 50 paces. The saving grace of course is that I can’t walk 50 paces in any direction fatigue being what it is.

Death is the color of saffron, it’s the color of everyone who has gone before me, I find myself staring through the fog, I could write the list of those who have gone before, be careful there are lots of souls floating around. I grab them as they float around the giant commode that once was a life. This is beginning to chafe me.

Death is the color of my eyes this morning I wish they had warned me about the cream of wheat, I don’t seem to be able to stop the staring of eyes passing by, Tiny unfiltered little voices all asking the eternal question: “Mommy, why is that man yellow?”

Death is the color of the green green grass of home though there is no longer any grass not even a lonely cement curb upon which to scrape an errant wheel. Betcha you’re gonna have a hard time coming up with a hubcap for a 1952 DeSoto.