"Oi, d'you wanna hear my Whatnot Story?", she says, absolutely beaming. A blazing sun.
I am quite happy enough to think, "well....!" (but instead retreat to my heap of purple feathers in the corner). "Yeah---so let us hear it."
"Well first," she starts, "I had an impeccable image of a young Paul Newman."
"An impeccable image you say?"
"Yes. The night was moving all so very fast, you see...so I saw this Paul Newman just right in front of me, his body being flanked all  over the place by passerby 2 ton trucks and whatnot..."
"...so you were just running all over the poor guy..."
"Yeah...and the next thing I know, I have this GIGANTIC squirmish paint blob on my face. In fact, everyone does. Paul Newman had somehow cursed us all with this magnificent whatnot."
She licked her lips thoughtfully. "So what colour do you think it was?"
"What colour WHAT was?"
"The paint blob, of course."

Uhm, orangey-yellow?

"So <time> left the <theatre?> for a traceable adventure,
only to find itself within another god's hands. <seclusion> <idolization>"

(And I kept thinking to myself--what is it with all those clothed quotes?)

Swimming in a light blue, the light-light-light-lightness of all.

Just wanted to hold that hand, but someone let go of my body first
I launched into midair, flung out, ----thomp!
An orbit racing the world, colourful tails of stripes and glitter.

What do these tales tell me
On this quiet altitude?