Sitting under a red moon beneath a starless sky. There is no color but red; a crimson world, a world of blood. They say a man might see red. He might go mad and say, ‘I’m seeing red.’ We have seen red, and we are mad.
Dreaming in the blue ocean. Tossed by the dark blue sea up into the light blue sky. Dead wood. Nothing. The vast current of millions of tons of salt water carry me as they will, and as the moon pulls the tide, the tide pulls me.
Locked in a room of white, a lunatic. Padded walls and floors, a waistcoat binds my arms. Raving mad in the room of white, carried there by the orderlies in their soft scrubs. White. All is white, like the moon. Howling at the moon.
Tale Told 