Huǒshùyínhuā

"A life burns into a fire, its symmetry a thousand angry orange lines. The orange of the sun of the purview of the long-leafed plane trees at Shanyin Road. The orange of the sum of the parts of the long-standing pastel-tinged shame of the artist. The fire rages on, on from the minute that these words are spoken, on like it could burn no brighter without suffocating, on still as if the dingy apartment, the streets of Shanghai, and to be honest, the world was always its kindling. Suddenly, it realizes that it really could burn no brighter, that it really was suffocating, that the inferno was quicksand -- its embers, macquillage. Upon this realization, it explodes in a second's pilgrimage…