Carrying around his bits of sadness and a 0,5l bottle of lime juice mixed with vodka, Zitao roams on the streets a lot with no purpose other than taking pictures with weirdos he meets on his way. He doesn`t even know how; all he remembers in the mornings are street lamps blinding his tired, swollen eyes and a bitter taste of solitude. He picks up all the photos he took with both curiosity and anxiety painted on his face. With every each night, he forgets people just like he forgets how to live, live his life. He wonders if the things that he does not remember still count, he thinks not, and this conclusion scares him more than relieves.
He`s falling apart.
And again, he takes a peak at last night`s lost memories scattered on a dirty table. A shiver. Between numerous strangers he notices eyes that shine lighter than his lone street lamps. Someone. And on that one photo, though maybe it`s only his imagination, he seems genuinely… happy; happiness, happiness he thought he entirely forgot. Suddenly he realizes it`s something he cannot loose, something that must count. Something he must make count.
A small dark apartment in the middle of a huge city is left empty, with empty wardrobe and empty lime juice bottles laying around.