Color me up to the edges of my outline in thatches of crayon strokes; bits of ochre, fern and midnight blue.
Rarely will I bleed ink on the pages, but mostly to my fingertips, black and blue from pressure on the quill.
Means are geometric for non-normal distributions. A gathering blue that peaks then tails into infinity.
Anything that rarely happens once is blue, like the synodic moon to achieve its baker’s dozen dominance.
But in the context of other palettes, blue marks the calmness
Love brings to the spirit.
Taps and Ratamacues 