I close my eyes tightly. When that poetic yellow leaves my eyelids; I'm starting to draw the darkness. With the last few twitches, the light pours out from where it darkened. It's as effective as lightning, but it takes a short time to fall. My feet don't get wet anymore. It's like the clouds want to make peace with me. Some are gray, most are pink. A scent in the air that I remember from afar, a name of a flower whose name I do not know. My best memory, whatever it was, is the darkness. Not in your stories; the darkness on my roof, at the tip of my pencil, in my little yellow notebook.