paleta de colores and el toque de colores;

There is a question that the innocent ask. They burn with curiosity, but finally inflamed they ask. In their world of bankcards and Sunday lawn mowing they don't often meet someone like me. I look at them. White. Then the thread unravels and I flash them colours of my life. And they, in their curiosity, reveal flashes of theirs.
Even a man who believes he is white has colours. The gauche green they hide, the cowardly yellow, the red they spurt fourth in anger, the ever present darkness they would rather forget. But it flaps at their shoulders and finally settles there, hunching its scrawny neck in ruffled feathers sticky with blood.

Some times they put their mortality in  a box and take out single fibers. 

Just something....
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