/daniel/
in j. daniel atlas's eyes, the world is dressed in white.
white is pristine, perfect, the color of brand new gloves or a fresh blanket of untouched snow, and j. daniel atlas is nothing if not perfect.
on the stage, he's painted in white; purer than any angel and hiding more than a few tricks up his sleeves, walking on clouds and speckled with stars.
(behind the scenes, he withers in white; stripped down and barren, chiseled into shape and nailed down like a marble statue.)
on the stage, he inhales white; commanding, powerful, drawing eyes with every breathtaking movement and casting spells with nothing but a smile.
(behind the lights, he screams white; static noise, with all the words in the world and nothing to say, hiding behind his illusions and deceiving anyone with enough innocence to spare.)
on the stage, he's blindingly white; glowing, flawless and unscathed, a figure with bright wings feathered in playing cards and spotlights illuminating the gleam in his eye.
(behind the curtain, he's burning white; the absence of color, scrubbed clean until his skin is raw, tailored and tugged until he's just right, painted over and over until he's nothing more than a silhouette.)
j. daniel atlas is colored in with sheets and snow and all the stars (and he's a disappearing act all in himself)