You say I give too little away, but I have given away everything that is relevant; I am not interested in pastel days, though they are the most numerous days of all, along with the objects, the thoughts and the other things within them. When you put them end to end, you realise there is almost no place the pastel hasn’t crept, and that only generalities remain specific. It seems that without pastel we cannot recognise the shapes of ourselves, but if clarity requires such sleight of hand, can obscurity really be its converse? I have not yet made my peace with those days; they come to me as they come, and I accept them as they are. When they sit before me, I do not reach away to draw them, and when they look out the window, I do not follow their gaze onward toward the things they are searching for.