I asked the little boy who cannot see, "And what is colour like?" "Why, green," said he, "Is like the rustle when the wind blows through The forest; running water, that is blue; And red is like a trumpet sound; and pink Is like the smell of roses; and I think That purple must be like a thunderstorm; And yellow is like something soft and warm; And white is a pleasant stillness when you lie And dream."
It is not the most obvious side of me but there is some where a part of me that would survive in New York City on the top floor of a chic apartment building over looking the Statue of Liberty.