Red is intensity. Not sharp and focused, but more ephemeral – a sensation more than a defined object. Red grabs you roughly by the arm if you’re lucky, but more likely, red grabs you by the hair, shoves you into the convertible and hurtles you down the narrow highway, scenery and your more sober thoughts fiercely blurring in your peripheral vision. Red doesn’t care if you’re the sort of person who prefers quiet evenings in with rational, poignant conversation in voices that are never raised. Red delights in upsetting your measured existence, your safe and comfortable countenance. Red works on your emotions, the pores of your skin, the unfiltered truth of your baser senses. Red devours you and in so doing, devolves you, stripping away your civility and leaving you to deal with your animal self. All lust and lusciousness, all sex and sensuality, all danger and daring.

But as uncomfortable as it may be, as hard as you wish for your previous calm, you ignore red at your peril. Red is a life worth dying for.