The street is dimly yellow; no, it is whitish yellow, as if the beams of street lights are covered by white polythene. Fog everywhere, making a thick layer of gelatin over the sky.
It is not something I see often in this foreign city, but when it comes, it crawls across the evening to the morning. Leafless dry branches are sleeping. Their brown bodies have shed one stop down, maybe more. No blowing wind either.
They look standstill, like a porcelain sculpture.
My anger can’t be defused, only swallowed, and then it springs up and hits back only on me. As if a bundle of ants scurried like shooting sparks, eating my flesh from inside.
Ah, can the fog whoop over my skin?
I don’t want to lose my anger; that is the only thing I nurture to dissect your withering look, see if there is any lilac.