These are the pink days. He sits on the obsidian parapet of the starscraper. They say you gotta take the blue with the brown and the grey but, he murmurs, the pink days are the best. His panting fades as he watches the sinking sun, floating in glittering, orange water. Wispy cinnamon swirls, lotus-pink, hover above the harbour as a layer of her golden cellophane superimposes with his hard, bright, dark eyes.