It is the color of the mop that cleans the asylum.  Outside it is coarse, 
like the compliments hopeless men pay beautiful women.  Inside, it is as 
smooth as something longed for, again and again.  You run your finger there 
and feel the fine residue of its renowned silence, undiminished when you 
hold it to your ear.  There is no ocean sound; no crying gull; no hint of 
anything past.  Just the hiss of blood, gathering in you like the tide in the night 
marsh, somewhere beneath an oblivious moon. 

Copyright 2001, Charles H. Oberkehr