He spent the deepest purple of his days folded in wool, leafing through pages he could no longer read. The paper was of no comfort; each turn made his fingers ache more. He didn’t remember what he was supposed to have been reading there, just that the book had been important. It was a book, and they were important on principle, this one in particular. So important…but he didn’t know why. Violet dragged to plum, which faded to blackberry and into quiet, unnoticed death. The air was cold and bright, and the sky like sunflowers the morning of the funeral.