Somewhere in the colour of sleep is a shade of you. I listen but you're long into the night already. The horse I ride sweats yet we barely cover the length of our echo through the tableland of this nocturnal gallop. Small understandings have flowered late along the way. We are driven, the horse and I, on to a ludicrous fate. Unless they are free I don't like horses and if I'm asleep, awake or neither we seem to get nowhere with all this wanting to. I think you knew, you would mew it in your sleep, what colours meant; the lustre of bones and oil, the universal pigment thick in our hearts. My horse is coloured from an unimaginable palette. It was you who painted this horse and you who put me on it. The flowers were simply splashes ?? and the desert, that was nothing. You are released from known colours and it is uncollectible the way you now appear as particles, as light.