YELLOW .

Darkness engulfed the hologram, suddenly replacing the digitized actors with little effort, leaving a lot to be desired. A cascade of letters are chewed up and spat out single-file by the holotube in big, bold, print. Right on schedule. Timely Adverts is the current preference of The Man, for now; dull monochromatics, but the market is more casual with a variety of different options, hit-or-miss. Though in favor of spontaneity, the slack structure, with only one law in mind, has an appearance of moral dimension. Better than them marketing goons trying to brainwash me.

Miss.

Introspective chatter muffles the monotone narrator, predictable as always. The words being mumbled appear in front of the holovision as the letters shift from screen to reality with a slight flicker - an undoubtful indication that it was time for The Man to replace the outdated tech.

Standard features would suffice. All I ever see are damned ads these days, anyhow. Pins like needles penetrate the skin, now agitated. Deep shades of red burgundy splotch against The Man’s face.

Paint shouldn’t have to cure for much longer. It’s time to see the completed piece.

That reminds me . . . pillowcase.

Pungent acidic draft, caustic in nature, wafts from the canvas. Euphoric knots fall heavy like lead in the pit of The Man’s stomach, a dull ache is replaced by waves of nausea. Unsatisfied with the current draft of the city. Why is it so blah? No one, not even a dosser would accept this for free, not even in exchange for a meal!

White skyline glosses over a captivating dark sky. Few touch-ups are needed, yet something is missing.

*

Orange peels boil on the stovetop releasing a strong citrusy aroma. The desire to be on the beach sipping a cognac of choice, hearing the harsh crashing of the waves, distant, long-since angered. I can feel the inspiration flow through my veins, now. Familiarity plays at the corner of the temples, tingling, activating the go-juice.

Bumps and jagged edges feel rough against the surface of the old wooden handle, dry with time, distracting The Man pondering his dilemma. That pit in my stomach is back. Something is missing. But what?

A blue hue from The Man’s periphery signals the time to handle a more personal matter. How could The Man be so careless? He would have to make use of the playback feature. Far from ideal. Better than nothing.

Stress and minutes melt away. Stomach muscles contract from deep laughter. I’m sure my rude ass neighbors will complain like they always do. Fear victimizes The Man’s paranoia, indication enough to finish this later and return to work.

One last glance of inspiration, eyes’ gaze fixates on the heart-shaped locket, slightly ajar, resting against the pixilated substitution for skin, hanging around a very real neckline. The brass color was lost in translation, but The Lover could see the golden hue in the mind’s eye, regardless of the lower-grade nature of the tech. It was all I could afford at the time, but I knew where it belonged.

The kitchen, just a quick skip down the hall, bellows the smell of smoke and a pungent, earthy rind. Evasive stimuli distort the fantasy of sipping mimosas in a hammock, shaded cool, the flesh of nearby blistering fruit melts away with the rest of the illusion.

Adverts, not a second late, make rounds in the kitchen. No time for an appetite now. That new sub shop would have to wait. Work must be complete. Without the piece, there are no credits to exchange. If only the fog, now filling the head with a pressured sensation of fullness, would lift. There’s a solution somewhere. Just have to focus. Focus.

. . . that would be perfect.

The Man is careful not to discard the mystery color as he filters through his box of essentials. So many different hues, most are lackluster, accurate to the market standards. How did I unknowingly collect so many similar sets? Wasteful, wasteful, wasteful.

It’s not difficult to find what you’re looking for, considering it’s one of the only nearing empty tubes. Crusts flake to the touch, the aged dye grossly reminiscent of boogers, a product of bleeding out each individual, precious, drop.

. . . there it is.

Yellow paint, water, and a quick flick of the wrist to paint the bottomless sky. A blanket of darkness no longer blinding.

I smile.