Hailee Wolf

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He lowered the jar of red paint in his hands. He stood there silently, looking at it. Then he sighed deeply, replaced it on the easel. He picked up the yellow paint. “Oh mean colored yellow,” he said. “Oh angry, mean color. Oh, bars on windows to keep out the tree. Oh door with the lock and the turned key. I hate you, yellow. Mean old color. Color of prisons. Color of being lonely and afraid. Oh mean-colored yellow.” He put it back on the easel.
Dibs: In Search of Self
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