Graphemics of a Colored Memory

I raise my heavy eye-lids, and pull their decorated pearls with them to absorb the pale blue light of the dotted sky –the dove fell asleep within its soft brown plumage– the last of the clouds reflected shadows of any creature a-like and the ashes that sediment my white table, run oscillapously like the cockroach I spot from the corner of my eye. Forget and get to writing, and to the drinking; the cezve is a bottomless well of black Arabic sand (from which the coffee I, now drink, grew). I brewed-up the textures and contours of every-thing’s faces onto the obverse of the skin that, with one nictation…