A perfect backdrop to starry eyes and orphaned mornings, from the ambiguity of rubber boots to the persuasiveness of that little dress, black travels well. It’s the line between success and obscurity, a rebellious streak of pigment, the priesthood of all that’s swanky, solvent, underground. Any depressed typewriter key, the raised flag of punk and piracy. Like the last licorice twist, black screams: I’m in control. It’s the sheen of vinyl records as they spin, plunging velvet backs onto supple leather. Raven or phantom, black is the absence of light behind your eyes, an entire spectrum dancing on the head of a pin. Pitch: what the pot’s calls sound like to the whistling kettle. It’s the names of sheep who don’t count, cats who’ve crossed over. Apocalyptic horse of hunger, the ever-ready battery of hi-tech discomforts, the death that follows thanksgiving. Symbol of grief, the black widow spider consumes what she cannot love.
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