The eye is like a child, drawn to every glimmer of gilded light, drawn to this flexing of sweet daffodil yellow. "Perhaps this is a portal to the dawn," the childlike eye muses, "or a chromophilic whisper from the perfect land of Eldorado?" In Eldorado, Voltaire tells us in his Candide, the fountains flow with cane-sugar liquors and rose-water, and the streets are paved with stones that smell of cloves and cinnamon. One must be attentive, then, to every bright, burning yellow spot one sees: it might be the doorbell to a golden age.
