In the streets there are black faces — faces infused with sun. There is no room to unconsciously etch the faces out of existence. For they exist, not as a negation to whiteness but a bold proclamation to the visibility of what is , who is unmistakably there.
So there are black faces to see. See them.
And those faces come tethered to sounds and silence. Faces are made active by voices, so there is a dimension added: the curvature of skin in motion, a tongue which whips from grooved roof of mouth to its fleshy base. A tongue waving over teeth, cavities creating spaces large enough to carry conversation. Those black voices, sounds so enmeshed in shading they paint images of how to live and when to live and what to live, with vibrancy. A voice in color is a voice which means to speak, that it to say, a voice in search of others to behold.