For eighteen years, Larkin had been dressing in blues and pinks and greens and golds that no average man would touch with a ten-foot pole, because it seemed like a last-ditch effort to add color to a world that had robbed him of such pleasure. Left in a void after the boom, the squish, the crack—and gray had no home on a color wheel. Then he’d met an artist named Ira Doyle and everything had erupted in a blinding white, a composite of all the colors. And the storm began to move in reverse, the rain and thunder and lightning backtracking into the sky, restoring the watercolor portrait of his
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