In his previous life, Lin Zihao was a nobody stuck doing factory work. His dream was to become an artsy young man, and in this life, that was still his goal.
You say I'm not artsy?
Doesn't reciting “Jian Jia” make me artsy?
Doesn't reciting “Ju Jiu” make me artsy?
Isn't “Facing the sea, with spring blossoms” artsy enough?
Still not enough? Then I'll just go act in an artsy film. That ought to do it, right?
Still not enough? Then I'll publish a book of angsty youth literature. Surely that'll do it, right?
Still not enough? Then I'll head back to the countryside and pick chrysanthemums by the eastern fence, gazing leisurely at the southern mountain. That has to be artsy enough, right?
