My hometown is a foreign land
When you mention missing something, what I might extend next is Tokyo, the name of my lover in Glasgow, or the future.
As for my real hometown, the remaining memories I have might only be the names of a few bookstores I often visited, Childhood companions or friends from youth, a few parks I frequently went to, a few relatively exquisite theater buildings, or the relocated school, the way to my tutorial classes, and the long-forgotten flower, bird and fish markets.
I didn't take many photos at that time, but fortunately, my mind for taking pictures in a different time and space was still able to capture snow that reached my knees, running legs, grapevines or meteorites, poor engravings, ice slides or mud castles, and butterflies that couldn't be caught in the hall.
When it comes to food, I was once forbidden to eat from street vendors, so I only have the impression of the few home-cooked dishes my mother made, such as purple aubergine in sauce, diced meat, potatoes and Stewed Bean Curd with Potato. Occasionally when I go out to take a shower, I would cut open the two diagonal openings of the milk bag, suck on it while letting it flow, and watch the water droplets constantly dripping in the bathroom, or stare at the bodies of middle-aged women with varying degrees of breast sagging.
Besides, poplar and willow trees all make me allergic.
The only thing I like is the evergreen pine.