It’s an even-numbered day and the grass is evenly mowed, the grass is as green as grass can be, and its medicinal properties could not—under any foreseeable circumstances—be more potent. It’s an even-numbered day and there are no plans to visit doctors, no appointments to make or attend, no preparations to be undertaken, no recuperative balms or ointments or pills or exercises required.
He breathes and breathes and breathes and breathes.
Tomorrow, however, will be odd-numbered. The grass will be irrelevant and ineffective, and the sky will be pink all day long. The air he breathes and the water he drinks and all of his idle thoughts will be dredged in pink. As much as he hates the doctors and all things medical and allegedly therapeutic, he hates the pink even more.
He looks forward to the time when, rising before the light arrives, he feels no need to inform himself of the day’s odd or even number; does not have to prepare for either the pink or the green; has no doctors to call and awaits no calls from doctors.
He looks forward to becoming his colorless, numberless self.