The growth of my camera roll has gradually slowed down by now, and I stop gawking at every neon sign and street cart. Instead of new stimulations, I now search for familiarity: the way tree roots refuse to stay underground and instead stubbornly wrap around stone walls, when the overwhelming scent of incense almost swallows you the moment you step into a temple, how 枇杷膏 delivers a sweet numbness as it slips down your throat. This is not homesickness—I can easily stay a month here—but probably some form of adaptation, defense mechanism.
But today, I feel a different kind of sick: the mundane, common flu. A visit to the doctor without insurance is definitely cheaper here, but I opted out with the intentions of spending my money on more tangible objects that may help me remember. Counting the days we have left is quite depressing, so I work on my paper instead.