The kitchen tiles were a warm semi-translucent gold, each shaped as a hexagon, together delivering the effect of a sweet honey comb cocoon.
The kitchen tiles clad even the pillar, giving it a soft and iridescent sheen, drawing the eye up to the rafters and solid roof above.
The kitchen tiles were a rich warm cream, the kind of hue that is soothing in its gentleness. They were stacked much the same as the bricks of a house, each placed by a careful loving hand.
There were a new modern sort of kitchen tile, sleek, flat and monochrome. After the garishness of living, of the scratching nails of commercialism, they were a sight for sore eyes, a chance to rest.
The kitchen tiles are from an era past, a time when their colours were all the fashion. They have a beauty in their own way, a calling to strength and boldness.
The kitchen tiles are sombre browns with cream and the palest of turquoise glass, each of them stacked as a pile of books might be by some happily distracted reader. The rocks are so grounding and the glass brings memories of clear water on sunny days.
The kitchen tiles are the calling of the ocean with their swirls of cyan and royal blue. As I cook my imagination sees fish within the depths, it sees the whales and how their tails flick above the waves in playful movements.
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