As I ride along through the countryside, peering through the pristine glass train window, passing vast, open fields of green, the stark contrast of the red amongst the grass appears vaguely inapt. The color red seems misplaced no matter the setting. The burgundy paint peeling off the sides of the barn attempts to escape its rural destiny. The shiny red wheelbarrow perched alongside it seems too harsh to be housing the precious white eggs inside. The pile of sun-faded bricks on the ground serves no purpose in the foundation of structure, contributing nothing to life. The bright scarlet apples precariously dangling from vibrant branches are parasitically sucking the life from the generous tree.

Even outside of this natural setting, red appears as an invader, a superfluous attention-seeker, a temptation of danger or lust. Think of fast, cherry red sports cars racing through dull city streets, and the crimson liquid seeping through translucent paper-like skin after the crash. Remember the rosy flushed tone of her cheeks the last time you kissed, and the ruby-painted plumpness of her lips that beckoned you to do so in the first place. Finally, after hours of innocent daylight, the sun sets into a bloody sky that welcomes the darkness of night. Everything ends in red.