Feel an object. Build it in your mind by touching it with your hand. Craft mentally its edges and texture, and all its dimensions. Now, imagine being able to gather this data without touching anything at all, simply being in its presence sufficing. This is Sight, and its an ability that also allows one to gather data from an object touching it cannot. This data is Color. Color is nothing beyond what you already know about objects, only an additional feature applied to them. It is the quality that allows two objects that are exactly the same, two objects of identical size, weight, and texture, to differ, and be separately recognized.

Roses are red,

That much is true,

But Violets are actually purple,

Not stupid blue

You're sure roses are red?

That's just one point of view

Because what I see as ruby

Looks emerald to you

What you might call green

In it's variable hues

All looks the same

Until it strays toward blues

To cries of 'misrepresentation!

Flowers labelled askew!'

Well, to me there's no difference 

Between violet and blue. 

I've learned to adapt

I do fine, I make do

But I don't believe all that I see

To be true. 

My skin caught on fire at the sight of the creamy ivory of her lushness just begging to be sipped and savored with my tongue. Seductive heavy lashed eyes gazed at my inner soul, urging me to fall abjectly at her feet. Her breasts were like full moons shining luminously in white gold beams of enticement. Shapely legs begged me to travel to their molten source. Even her name was beautiful – Lorelei – named after a woman who was rumored to be a bewitcher of men as well a siren calling them to their deaths.

“Stay away from her.” My deceased mother’s voice instilled itself into my head, pounding in her insistence, “She is no good. She’ll hurt you.”

“Be quiet, mother,” I shouted, “go back to your netherworld and leave me alone.”

I knew in my last kernel of awareness that my mother was right. Although I was overcome by a malignant aura foretelling that Lorelei was evil incarnate, I chose to turn my back, ignoring my subconscious warnings. I argued with myself in heated words, rationalizing that I would just ride the magic carpet to wherever it took me, without worrying about the consequences. I promised myself that I would leave after sampling her wonders. My pulse quickened as little beads of sweat decorated my upper lip in moistness. “I am coming, Lorelei,” I crooned, as I floated toward her in ignorant bliss.

“You’ll be sorry. Don’t do it!” I paid no heed to my mother’s distant fading voice.

Lorelei was everything that had been promised to me as I lost myself in her

whirlwind of pure lust. She gave to me until I begged her to stop. “Please,”

I cajoled, “I can’t go on forever as you can. There has to be an ending.”

But Lorelei continued with her passionate ministrations of moist lips, probing tongue, and stroking hands leading me to her very center. Finally, I crashed into the rock wall that the Song of Lorelei had promised me in legends of the past. My heart could take it no longer and ceased its hammering life.

Once again, I heard the warning voice of my mother, “I warned you, son! Now you’ll be with me forever in the clouds. She was the death of you!”