What does it mean to carry colors with us? What happens when we ask a child what they think their favorite color will be in thirty years? What happens when you walk outside into the humid streets of Madrid at night and whisper to yourself, Quiero que llueva pétalos de flores sobre mi cabeza? What happens when the river bumps its head on the ceiling? What happens when we’re walking through the streets of Madrid naked and realize that we still have something in our pockets — and that — somehow — we still have pockets? What does the song “Song” think of the song “Sometimes A Song” by Bill Withers? Do we dance to it? Sway? Check to see if there’s a slight of hand? Or love the way we’re supposed to?