November 24, 2001
He always dreams in color. He'll swear to it. Bright, vibrant colors fill every second of his sleep. Blood wells up from a cut, a crisp crimson. Grass so green you would weep to lay on it. Flowers a shade of yellow so majestic it rivals the sun. Skies so wonderfully blue you would wonder why anyone would use the term blue to mean sad. And every color in between slipping in and out of focus, teasing and pleasing. Every morning he wakes with tears in his eyes, wishing it could always be so beautiful. You see, awake he's colorblind.