Bursting with money and a whimsical longing for love, the cabin in which I will be inhabiting for the next two hours and fifty minutes reeks a granulated, warmed-over smell of vegetables boiled with flavor enhancers. Because she comes from the West. You know, she has a real western manner and I am an Eastern guy; we need these inconveniences, they're undeniably cute - the sebaceous disgust of spending too much time, and the sour anguish of spending too little. A woeful swashbuckler and a softheaded girl, we are just trying to get this thing up and running, with patches after patches and a fardel of sunken cost, smiling and grudging while being semi-conscious of what's actually going on.
I don't always contemplate though; sometimes I would cease remedying it and sit back to watch the whole thing falling apart, and admittedly there's certain enjoyment that comes with it, the blissful liberation of no longer having to think, of letting loose the emotions long constrained, but I'd budge after a minute or two - not that it's too indispensable to forgo; it's just that, like virginity and human life, one can only wholeheartedly cherish it once, and the notion that such cherishment becoming an irreversible past disheartens me, and drains the would-be duplicitous sincerity of my soul. Never mind, I approach myself, it ain't that hard, these human affairs and what not, don't worry a thing, don't worry a thing, and don't worry.
My dinner is ready and I soon finish it, a set of beef rice with a single raw small tomato and a plastic glass of Coca-Cola with ice, not particularly delicious yet it spares me the trouble of finding a restaurant near the middle of the night, in a city alien to my knowledge and familiar to my imagination. Countless clouds, cast mostly golden and in the usual blue where they are scant, move backwards with a rapidity elusive to my understanding. On my bouncy aircraft seat hardly any speed can be felt - I only know I'm moving westward because of the sun; and to me the day is longer than hers.
Yet the excitement, and the scoff of it, thin out pretty soon. A little hotel on the fourth floor of a building by the viaduct, on it are rapid transit buses with 30 km/h speed limit, and an odorous elevator, they constitute of who I am here, piteous and disregarding. Now she's gone, and I get to truly sit down. She's both ailed and hundreds of kilometers away - a hapless state, which neither I nor she seems to confront. The Green Day punk music is still playing in the background, out of a different pair of speakers, from those of an iPhone 5s to those of an iPhone 6 Plus, and into a different pair of ears, from those of when I was 18 to those of when I am 20. Sometimes I'd still sing along, putting forward a face of the retard for I consider it representative of the genuine punk spirit, and the emotions I once felt in between the lines are still there, completely identical in flavor and composition, only less pungent in expression and less sensible in taste. Now I prefer not to wag my head to the rhythm, as an expensive laptop is sitting on my laps and more than often, the music has stepped back to become a sort of background noise that's only to be welcomed during a concert or a special event rather than as a theme of life. Haha, you're dead; the joke is over; you were an asshole, in the loving memory, of your demise.
I have begun to use WeChat a month ago; yesterday I even followed up multiple promotional barcodes in the shopping mall to print out photos from my iPhone Photo Library for free; it was four copies of the photo I took with Winnie at a subway station in Lisbon, Portugal; the print-outs still have the promotional barcodes on them, yet I keep them in the snug protection of my pocket, hoping when she comes back after three days, she will have her unwrinkled 2-copy share.
