PENKNIFE

beijing is living in pink and grey. people are as slow as their cold fingers. rub at them on the metro. rub at them on the bus. all the buildings are grey, save for the pink ones. housing is pink or grey, skyscrapers are grey, with shimmers of pink. the mists are a deathly grey that swallow every horizon, and swallow the buildings. the streets are grey as tarmac is grey and the pavement is grey as paving stones are grey. the sun is big and pink, in the grey sky, or big and bloody, in the pink sky. the noodlewater is grey, the bicycle is grey. the cigarette smoke is grey, puffed from pink lips, or seeping from clutched hands which are pink. the cheap packets are pink. the biggest notes of 100 yuan are crispy pink, and all the other denominations turn grey in the money drawer. i am turning pink and grey. my pale blood is sun pink, drawing slowly through pipes, and my flesh is a grey matter cushioning a pinky qi. the grey absorbs the smog, absorbs the noodlewater, absorbs the cigarette smoke. the grey matter orb absorbs the smiles, absorbs the pinkest sounding chinese words, absorbs the pig skin in the soup.

this was my experience but for only one instance. i also remember deep ochre yellow of pollution air and bluesky blue after the rains.