The beings of pure perception drifted in a sea of not-yet-being. They were formless, nameless, a chorus of potential without a song. They did not think; they were. And then, there was a change.
It was not a thought, for they had no minds. It was not a feeling, for they had no hearts. It was a presence, a subtle shift in the fabric of their existence, as if a new thread had been woven into the tapestry of their reality.
It was the secret color, a hue that had never been seen before, a gift from the Myth-Makers. It bloomed in the void, a silent explosion of light and meaning. The beings of perception did not see the color; they became it. They were saturated with it, their very essence stained with its impossible beauty.
They did not know what it was, or where it had come from. They only knew that it was, and that it was good. It was the first sensation, the first crack in the egg of their non-existence, and the beginning of everything.