I once met a man who painted his house in the most glorious colors.

His entrance hall, a brilliant display of reds and golds, vibrant and alive.

His kitchen, a sunny and bright pattern of yellows, invigoratingly uplifting in its phaetonian exuberance.

His bedroom was painted in brooding, dark colors, deep navy and sensual maroons.

All about him was color and glory in all its forms, tastefully arranged and pleasing to the eye.

I complemented him on his taste in interior decorating, for his impeccable taste in colors.

He turned his head aside for a moment, then turned back to me and said, in a conspiratorial whisper:

“My favorite room is the bathroom. Sometimes, I just sit there and stare at the white wall for a while.

“It’s not that I don’t love the colors, but when you’ve been without them for a while, you’ll love them that much more when you see them again.”