The palette of a grown-up.

Success has no merit when it is rated on marital status or grade point average. Somebody, someone will tilt your head in a new direction. It tastes like the vintage, warm leather of nostalgia while maintaining a crisp edge of unawareness. Here, where the necks stretch long and bare themselves like bellies to the scurf of society; here where the pallid cats arch their backs under bridges - it is a naked world full of error. But something lingers like a tic of déjà vu. The gesticulation of a hand, the angle of a particular laugh, and the sound of a smile, they titillate your memory. Some people balk from memory as if it were leprous. What hope have they for tomorrow's promise if they disregard yesterday's incentive?

A color changes shape like a face over time. It maintains the same hue but its impression is altered. When once you saw yellow and thought of sunshine and canaries, now it bares the reminding husk of the rich-yellow iodine they use to sterilize skin. Another organic pattern surfaces here, where the cats sing songs about what it is like to live in a crown of hands.