"A lot of people don't like brown, but I think it's lovely, in its own way." 

He pulled his attention back to her. He would be content to just lay here with her forever, looking up at the sky, even though he couldn't see it. 

"Brown is warm. It's the smooth, comforting taste of chocolate. It's drinking hot coco. It's a warm, fuzzy blanket, wrapped around you on a cold fall night. It's shades...a voice like honey, a touch like hazel."

He focused on the inflections of her voice. Her voice was like music.

"It's bare feet on soft dirt...messy, but lovely if you really let yourself embrace it. It's leather boots...It's the feel of the old books in the library, their covers and their pages...and it's part of that lovely, indescribable way that they smell."

He closed his eyes (not that it changed anything) and pictured the books. Brown.