There may not always be subjects or the sheer hypocrisy of a form. But there’s always convulsion in monotone. Even the most explicit sky comes with the tail of a knocked-up rainbow. The stack of clouds rules out the humdrum sky over the horizon, turning themselves into another white streak of monotone in the end. The river, the people devoid of life and the mud. The constant frame of variable means. But the radiance venting out through the same picture differs from eye to eye, body to body and mole to mole. Which of the bodies can take in monotone and make it immortal in the most articulate sense? Can you make an incomplete boat ride whole simply by waving to a total stranger? Can you be red among blacks and whites?