There is nothing more to say. Arguing over facts is meaningless. Inventions have always been discoveries, and every argument is an attempt to disprove. Perhaps I still exist now, but the next moment I may not. The same goes for the book I'm writing: who knows when I might decide to stop?
I want to write a book that exists only in my imagination, filled with every fantasy of the past, present, and future. I will bring it into being. I hope it will be remembered as a classic, and I hope it can become one. I don't know if I'll be able to keep going, but that's what dreams are: impractical. Cheer me on!
This novel and its characters are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. Do not imitate.
Although the data is pitiful, I will still persist. If anyone can see it, please give me some strength!
After all, I still didn't persist.