[ WP ] You 're a composer with synesthesia . Describe your works without using sound .

The symphony started with a blank slate, as most creative works do. A sheet of pure, crystalline white, with nothing but black sharp lines to give it shape. Some people in the audience find this part intimidating, but I always loved the clean start to my music, letting the silence carry on until the moment felt right, with barely a whisper from the clarinets to break the quiet. 
 
 But slowly the melody would begin. The flutes would start, with a few wisps of pale green that floated across that blank page like smoke, curling into little tendrils through the silence. The audience would barely notice that the song had begun, but it had, building gently into tiny bursts of pink and purple. By then everyone knew it had begun, with staccato bursts of yellow and white chimes. Soon the whole room would be filled with the pastel hues all playing in unison. 
 
 The colours would morph, some fading out while others darkened, until only a few colours dominated the stage. Blue and gold, but greens most of all. Dark greens, pale greens, greens so vibrant they felt like they were daring you to get up and run, to smell them. The saxes would go to war, clashing with each other in competition to be louder or brighter, all while the tubas played on, heedless of the battle. 
 
 When the symbols started crashing it seemed like just one more shade of part of the war. What people did n't notice was the greens fading out, becoming more golden. At least, not until the first shades of red appeared, marking the transition in an unmistakable way, even to those who were n't paying attention. It was n't long before all the greens were gone, replaced with red and orange and yellow. The tubas part had n't changed, yet it always felt deeper here, their blue standing out in sharper contrast to the brass crescendo. I heard some people say they were sad at this point because they knew it meant the song was nearing an end. I always wondered if they were paying attention to how cosy it felt as they huddled a little closer with that knowledge. 
 
 But even good things must end, even the guitar that took over as the brass section wound down. I was just watching the clarinet's first flurry of white splash over the guitar's sound like static when my wife entered the kitchen, a warm cup of hot chocolate in her hand. 
 
 `` Looks like the snow is finally here again,'' she interrupted, sitting down in the bay window beside me. `` No more gardening until next year.'' 
 
 `` That's fine, I have something gorgeous planned for then,'' I said, pulling her closer under my blanket. 
 
 `` It's a shame you ca n't have the flowers all year,'' she mused, cuddling up into my chest. 
 
 `` I would n't want to,'' I said. `` The blank page is my favourite part.''
