Yellow.

Everything starts in black and white. Just like sketches. scribbled in pencil. On rough scrap paper. Over time the lines can become more defined. And slowly the picture starts to emerge. As lines become more and more perfect the picture becomes more and more worn. The edges of the paper curl. The paper becomes stained. But the picture remains perfect. Perfection has no meaning. Under the lines of perfection, of definition lie those same lines that started out the picture. The foundation. This is mankind. This is human, in every way possible. Always like the artists. Always seeking perfection. But no matter how hard you go over the lines. How sharp the pencil is. The sketches are always there. These sketches are not ugly, because without them, there would be nothing. No beauty, no picture, nothing.