Once I was talking with a friend, a girl who wrote stories. I never had a talent for writing fiction; she did and some she would ask me to read. I was delighted to. It was a new one we were discussing, one in the works, and we mulled over an ending. And somewhere in our talk, she told me what it was that gave her this idea. She told me what it was that brought forth a story.
She said, "This is going to sound weird... but I had a dusty golden yellow feeling."
For a moment it gave me pause, then a smile, the rarest kind of smile when you know that in the World there is at least one other who really knows; and is quite alright with sounding weird; and I knew that though my aureate feeling does not express in words necessarily as hers does, it is a sorta Fairytale, and if there is an ending it will certainly be all right.
Does that make sense?
We agreed that feeling calm is a honey color and dreaming is deep and blue. Worn gold sepia was friendship. But Love neither of us could describe. Love is so many different colours.