Red takes us over, without shame. It intoxicates us like wine, consumes us like fire. It splashes the endless stories, sadness and anger, passion and tragedy of history. It recognises neither languor nor torpor. It is never lukewarm.
We dip a finger, then two, and we are caught up in its irresistible, powerful energy. It is difficult not to succumb to it, at least once in this life. Red is blood and tears, the trace of primal paintings.
It overshadows ladies' lips, decorates the alcove of lovers, embalms their hearts with passionate desires, and runs through their veins: it colours the skin and cheeks, scratched by too much emotion. Red captures our desires, devours our bodies, and feeds our impulses. It spices up our minds. Like addicts, we require a new dose of endorphins.
Red is to life what salt is to the sea.