The Colors between the Fleeting Fragments of Time

I remember a pale pink liquid dripping down the cold tiled walls of my bathroom, a foaming pink fluid that smells like sawdust and grapefruit.  I wipe it away, again and again, but it always returns.

And I can recall the oldest blue formed in the heart of a distant supernova, blue formed in the death of stars and buried deep within the Earth.

I have livid purple bruises under mottled skin; I have ignored the vivid warnings of bright red lipstick. The antenna surgically grafted to my skull allows me to see the colors between the fleeting fragments of time.