Once people turn into salted fish, time becomes especially unbearable.
Huai Shi ambled down the mountain, not bothering to hail a cab. He wandered like a stray dog, walking all theway into the city and observing the hustle and bustle.
He always felt out of place.
I must have developed some kind of PTSD, he thought, the kind where you can't sleep at night without holding a gun after being on the battlefield. If he didn't play video games for at least eight hours a day, and slack off for a full eight hours as well, he would feel distinctly uncomfortable. He had no motivation.
He hadn't shaved in days, his hair was a mess, and he was wearing slippers—everything about him screamed he wasn't a decent person. Feeling the pitying glances of those around him, as if they were thinking, So young and already a dropout, Huai Shi scratched his head, not knowing how to explain himself.
