too many dinosaurs

INDIGO
Colour of kings, colour of queens. This and the imperial papal sexual purple reserved for the upper echelons of roman society. Crushed up shells to attain the stain - a relative of the wampum, perhaps, buying the island from the Manahatta for the equivalent of $24. Of puffball cocktail dresses and velvet hairbows, of court shoes with heels of a certain height; velvet and diamonds; Cartier and Ritz Joallerie and never wearing black because it's for the servants. An album by Joni Mitchell - so, therefore, staying up late, beers, champagne, curlicues of cigarette smoke and husky voices in the darkest part of the night, just before dawn, at 3am. A tone in the language of jazz, of a deep woodwind melancholy, or the hum that someone else's voice makes if they speak while you dance chest to chest. Colour of a sky we don't see anymore, now it's stained all rotten tangerine yellow by sodium lights. Falling on the pavement in joy or despair and the bruise that follows after, rich with dead blood. Langour. The bloom on the skin of a plum and the taste of coffee.