I kick them, kick them hard, then harder still, over and over, and all they do is rustle with laughter as they fly through the air. The imps lie in piles, inviting me to fall on their beds of prickly beige, a colour I hate for its blandness. What would happen if I let them seduce me?  They might lull me to sleep, to those beige dreams that inevitably end up as nightmares. 

Their dried up skins enthral. "Come lie on us.  We will wrap you in dryness and caress you with the sweet smell of death." 

November is "le mois des morts", the month of the dead, a gray month with spots of beige.

A neutral colour ceases to be neutral when it ends up looking like this.

"One never tires of beige," my mom always said. (I've got news for you mom!) 

"He is beige (meaning boring)," a friend often repeated.

Soon there will be frozen leaves. 
Maybe beige isn't so bad after all.