That necklace is silver. It's just silver, it's nothing more than chain to chain.. to chain.
That tome, empty, ready for your words. It's red, of all the colours.
Those boots. Brown. That painting, green. It's a forest. If it had a lake? Hindsight is gloriously, glaringly obvious now.
Purple Inkwell. Black and white quill. Orange lockbox, stained. Maybe that's another brown? No.
Grey scarf. Purple pendant.
I'm starting to lose focus. Not for why I am sat here on the floor of our bedroom, but the clothing that was so carefully folded and placed around this hidden box had become a hood and a blinder.
And if Rum sniffs my ear one more time he can sleep in the yard.
