Animated color wheels like a dream of a country undiscovered and always bright open an hour or a little less empowered across space, everywhere, and across time, five years they say, to honor the patience and mind of the human design. I’m sold. You feel new. To watch you feel new. Your world’s awash with insane color and radical sound around you and all over and all the time. The sound and the color don’t stop but slow and you find your bearings in the market, in the markets, manmade and ancient but for the little yellow vans whose proper name I do not know but from whose windows flash patterned silk and cotton and polyester and viscose, surely from somewhere else or maybe everywhere but made and bought here before anywhere, and for all time, seems like, or at least since the advent of demand, which was maybe always. You feel new until you find letters and language, find body and world, and you can see yourself here, in the world, spinning, spiraling, colliding, traveling as anyone, and you are inside. That plane ticket’s good as your own. Textiles take you everywhere you’ve never been. Great waters carry all these shipping containers each stocked like the windowless mobile home of a very orderly hoarder on board boats like mountains like home, and to you and yours and me and mine, and back to the water all those glorious colors will one day return, uncontained. No real color on a map but you can tell where to find and home. Here is a postcard.