I thought about how each number or letter exudes a color, a distinct personality.
Nine asserts a dark red-orange. K is German and a spy. Two smells of pine and shades of green. Four is dark and old, bent or sitting. As a kid, I loved how the disparate graphemes merged to form a word, a complex relationship, and further on, to sentences. If I had delved deeper then, perhaps I could have carved out a Rosetta stone to translate every single emotion or thought, that the written word could be perfected to define by form. But I didn’t know how to speak then. I barely know how to now.