White cake for everyone

As he swung higher, he laughed more- until the turning point at which he would begin to become scared and then beg for static- plead for cessation and to just slow down a bit or stop pushing daddy.

The air was white- sorry the sky was white. But the air was white- the sky was a tangible, solid, vapourous mass which engulfled all and obscured everything more than maybe 100 ft away. And the air tasted white. That which you breathed was actually noticeable by its blandness- to detect a quality of the air distinguishes it as noticeable and impure- air is for breathing- for automatically ingesting subconsciously without trace or inconvenience, if you can feel the air you are breathing, if you notice that you are breathing, then somethings up- the airs not right- its there and it shouldnt be.

So as he screamed and laughed, begged for more and at once pleaded cessation on the fibreglass dolphin swing in the park, he gulped and guffawed his way through lung after lung of this bland air- well thats all I could think anyway. I wasnt enjoying his shrieks as much as I could be, because part of me was thinking - 'yeah what is that bland taste- come to think of it who is burning plastic, electrics or something- some great distance away... who has left the heating element on and gone out, in some obscure location 20 miles away that I can barely detect. Yet detect it I can- like that strange phenomenon of only being able to smell the rotting chicken meat left in a forgotten corner of a student kitchen, when you turn your head suddenly, or open a cupboard.. only detectable ever so vaguely...

I had imagined that autumnal climactic normalities had precipitated this thick and claustrophobic atmosphere- you know its exactly the same as that oppressive feeling you get when the sky is heavy with snow yet has not yet begun- when the cloaking is of sound as well as of visual- that solid white sky... yet this was not snow. It was cold, but not cold enough for snow. The caustic plastic being burned miles away, the mysterious milky tangibility- blandness- detectable and threatening to all who would pause to think about it... this heavy whiteness that iggy shrieked in as he played in the park, that I breathed as I read on the bench- this was not snow, it was not entirely natural in its composition. It was not an interesting foible of meteorology. No it was the second day of its kind since I arrived in Shnaghai- the second day in which I suspect the climactic conditions conspired to condense and concentrate the city's heartfelt industrial outpourings instead of dutifully whisking them out to sea or up to the hills. For the second time only the veil had been lifted on the true nature of this air we live and breathe in. When he brings his son to playgrounds like these, will they be white? Or will China have been ordered to catch up...