By his own account, he’s paint. He walks out his apartment for the penultimate time, and he stops. He’s definitely paint. Light and paint. Mixing the spectrum, they are very different. Paint, an ugly, brown slurry. A milkshake of strength and weakness.  Light, beautiful radiance.  Pure.

He’s jealous of light, how effortlessly it separates. How it can bring out the best with a soft glow or the truth with its power. But paint is life. A concoction of events that he’s seen before. The same ugly shade of brown. But he’s never seen blue like this. Twenty seconds, and he moves on. At least his feet do. He lingers on separation. A chemist, he knows that separating the slurry is not trivial. Light needs just a prism. Paint, a lab. He’s definitely paint.