“The music was, as before, a song I didn't know but found familiar, the words in a language I didn't speak but still understood. All of it as colorful as a painting. Cobalt blue. Prussian blue. Venetian red. Emerald green. He was singing a story. A sad one that suddenly became something else and then something else again, the colors changing as the story did, from a radiant magenta to some kind of violet. And then a gold I rarely heard.”
Book:Candle Island