Chroma begins in the blood. Perishing in slight depressions: the noble houses, their dingy little towns. Whether in its proximity the village ruins itself. Whether in some strata, some geological age—whether remote or close—in the churchyard grasping, out of the ruined soil. Whether diatonic, prismatic, harmonic, synchronic, with intervals of silence. Whether in unison the thoroughbreds, feasting in their stalls. Whether out of season some sheltered grove or, steep ravine, out of passage something will: the grasping hues, precious stones, the lodes. Whether chroma, and when. So seeping macerates the vein.