In the same way a photograph is equal to a thousand words, it would follow that a single word can also be a thousand images—ten thousand, even; a million, an impossibly large amount of sights and meanings and people. For example, what is BLUE? How do you define BLUE? And I’d say: it’s a pen, an ocean, most of an iris, a satin bow, a grave-side bouquet, a January, a July, a painting, a vein, a planet, a kiss, a song, a sweetheart, a mother, an awful secret, a perfect plan, a mission, a motive, a terrible love, a fall and a rise and a spring and a summer and a sweetness and a betrayal and a bottle of pills on the top of a drawer and a release of pain and a movie scene and a reunion and a sudden happiness and the stab of a knife and the curl of a baby’s fingers. It’s a monastery at the top of a mountain and the quiet dirt path that leads to it, all the way up, curling and caving and winding and treacherous. I’m tired of limits, of things being only what they’re meant to be—so give me infinity, please, any day.