Still Got the Blues

I downloaded a book by Sara Maitland (The Writer's Way) which I'm enjoying. It has a series of basic writing exercises in it and I had my first crack at one last night. The exercise is straightforward: pick a colour and write about it for fifteen minutes. Don't stop, don't revise, just write. Then repeat with a different colour.

So I got a fountain pen and paper and wrote, and was interested in what my subconscious came up with. I've typed it up below but have made one tiny edit - one of the sentences had no verb and needed one. Other than that, this is what tumbled out of my pen.

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BLUE

Blue is the colour of my true love's face in the morning as I rise. Is it blue with cold I wonder? Did she attempt to apply eye-shadow while asleep - somnabulent cosmeticism? Or perhaps it is blue because she has suffocated, whether from apnoea or perhaps a cat using her for a cushion while I slept on.
  Perhaps there was a blue moon overnight and the rays somehow gave rise to an immediate genetic mutation, rendering her forever azure, like the Mediterranean viewed from Sorrento or a Microsoft Cloud solution.
  Or perhaps I killed her in a blue funk, a fit of the blues, a melancholic state that drove me to take her life in an unthinking few moments of rage.
  Furious people usually 'see red' - perhaps I saw blue. I'm certainly seeing blue now.
  Blue, blue, blues; the Devil at the crossroads with a blue cat bone, with Robert Johnson, selling his soul for fame and an early death.
  Blues, a music of sorrow or ecstasy, rooted in the forced exodus of Africans to a new land; the property of Bible-reading Scots protestants.
  From the blue skies of Africa to the blue lagoons of the West Indies to the blue cotton overalls of the cotton picker. And, often, to the blue face of the dead slave; dead from overwork or starvation or disease or casual homicide.
  Or blue fruit, strange fruit, hanging from southern trees while blue-eyed belles stand in blue cotton summer dresses and blue ribbons in their blond, blond tresses. Blue moon of Kentucky, keep on shining. Shine down on the ants, scrabbling in your soils, making their love, making their music, making their graves in your disinterested light.
  And what of Josie and Billy-Bob on the bench seat of their dirty blue Packard, his hands a-roving in her disheveled blue underwear? Each desperate with desire for the other, each repressed by their shame, by their fear of pregnancy. Until in an exultant lapse of judgement they go for it hammer and tongs, lost in lust. But they sure had the blues nine months later, when their bouncing, blue-eyed baby boy was born, to be taken away by blue-habited nuns under the rich blue skies of summer.