Taffy color, stretched and poured, but self-confident somehow. This color knows where it’s going; knows what it’s about. Writes with a Mont Blanc, but kicks around in Toms. Has struck a balance between curve and line, between cool and hot. Can be pulled and persuaded, but also stands its ground.
Whoosh. I hear the sound of meetings, calls and deadlines whooshing past. At breakneck speed with a hot orange urgency. Blows my hair back. I adjust my aviators. I don’t mind, I’m on a plane to California. I’ll let this color land where it will. I’m landing in San Jose.