Sand and limestone are the same color as hummus and skin. Here, the world blends together across a spectrum of beige: living, nonliving, and no longer living. Crushed chickpeas match my stratum corneum and the worn bricks under my feet. This world is made of limestone. I am made of limestone, veined and cobbled, only I never knew it until I was dipped into this place. Eyes closed and chin lifted, I bask in the rivulets of molten stone, opening my mouth to bathe my pink tongue in liquid beige. Strike this stone, and overtones resound in perfect integer multiples of the fundamental frequency that has echoed through my veins for as long as I can remember.
We resonate, this place and I.
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