Ring the bells that still can ring,
Forget your perfect offering,
There is a crack in everything,
That's how the light gets in.
-- Anthem, Leonard Cohen
He was supposed to be black. The black of space: sterile, cold, infinite. Any anomalies, ripples, were to be confined in tight bright balls, like the pinpricks of stars in the night sky. Like stars, they burned bright and hot, but could be (should be) easily avoided in the vacuum of his mind. He was black; he was cold; he was void.
But he was not all black. Not truly. On certain days or at certain times, if you looked at the right angle or squinted just a bit, you could see a tiny glimmer of gold. Shining, pure and bright gold. He was imperfectly black – could not be perfectly black – limned and filled as he was.
He was not coolly black, but Jim was gold within him and all was right in the universe.