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But, for all that, they had a very pleasant walk. the trees were bare of leaves, and the river was bare of water-lilies; but the sky was not bare of its beautiful blue, and the water reflected it, and a delicious wind ran with the stream, touching the surface crisply.
-Charles Dickens
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But, For All That, They Had A

Charles Dickens
But, for all that, they had a very pleasant walk. the trees were bare of leaves, and the river was bare of water-lilies; but the sky was not bare of its beautiful blue, and the water reflected it, and a delicious wind ran with the stream, touching the surface crisply.
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Beautiful Nature Blue

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We walked on the beach, fed blue corn ships to the seagulls, and munched on blue jelly beans, blue saltwater taffy and all the other free samples my mom brought home from work. i guess i should explain the blue food. see, gabe had once told my mom there was no such thing. they had this fight, which seemed like a really small thing at the time. but ever since, my mom went out of her way to eat blue. she baked blue birthday cakes. she mixed blueberry smoothies. she bought blue-corn tortilla chips and brought home blue candy from the shop.
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The water of the fountain ran, the swift river ran, the day ran into evening, so much life in the city ran into death according to rule, time and tide waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together in their dark holes again, the fancy ball was lighted up at supper, all things ran their course.
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Blue is the insides of something mysterious and lonely. i'd look at fish and birds, thinking the sky and water colored them. the first abyss is blue. an artist must go beyond the mercy of satin or water-from a gutty hue to that which is close to royal purple. all seasons and blossoms inbetween. lavender. theatrical and outrageous electric. almost gray. true and false blue. water and oil. the gas jet breathing in oblivion. the unstruck match. the blue of absence. the blue of deep presence. the insides of something perfect.
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The bluebells made such a pool that the earth had become like water, and all the trees and bushes seemed to have grown out of the water. and the sky above seemed to have fallen down on to the earth floor; and i didn’t know if the sky was the earth or the earth was water. i had been turned upside down. i had to hold the rock with my fingernails to stop me falling into the sky of the earth or the water of the sky. but i couldn’t hold on.
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Be wild; that is how to clear the river. the river does not flow in polluted, we manage that. the river does not dry up, we block it. if we want to allow it its freedom, we have to allow our ideational lives to be let loose, to stream, letting anything come, initially censoring nothing. that is creative life. it is made up of divine paradox. to create one must be willing to be stone stupid, to sit upon a throne on top of a jackass and spill rubies from one’s mouth. then the river will flow, then we can stand in the stream of it raining down.
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We dash the black river, its flats smooth as stone. not a ship, not a dinghy, not one cry of white. the water lies broken, cracked from the wind. this great estuary is wide, endless. the river is brackish, blue with the cold. it passes beneath us blurring. the sea birds hang above it, they wheel, disappear. we flash the wide river, a dream of the past. the deeps fall behind, the bottom is paling the surface, we rush by the shallows, boats beached for winter, desolate piers. and on wings like the gulls, soar up, turn, look back.
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