Here sits a green man writing blue words on a piece of red paper, under the cold burning glow of a yellow vintage lamp. He is reporting an incident that reads like a story; he makes up all the little details along the way.
Outside, there is a song bellowing from the church: blue piano, red choir, dancers dressed in yellow feathers. He writes in tandem with the music, with a word for each note and a paragraph for each harmony.
It is difficult; the yellow rhythms are too slow for his green hands, and he much prefers rock or folk over hymns – but still, he endures. He goes on, for if he were to fall behind, they would realise his true colours. They’d burn him at the stake, ‘till his skin burned red hot. They’d plunge him in ice and turn him naught but blue. They’d shower him with cow piss and paint his face yellow. It is not bad, he thinks, to work at a primary pace and write the words of primary colours.
He knows not how much or how well he would write, if he were to write green words instead. Besides, red, blue and yellow look good together. They fit, like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle.
Better to be good, than to be green and nothing else.
With that, the man keeps his head down – and fills the world’s pages.