Beneath tarmac, asphalt; blacktop, bitumen— brown, which is the soil out of which the clay of our bodies was molded. How do the birds trapped in a bamboo grove take flight? If we go by the story, we're the outcome of Bathala's experiments with matter and fire— Pasty forms taken out too early, flabby from lack of color and tone. Those consigned too long in fire, all their lives bear the mark of that dark burnishing. We can't help who we are, but that only means we've learned there's someone who has wished this world (with us in it) repaired or annexed; or signed and sold, like a tract of land.