I am a novelist.
Others dream about resting, but as soon as I fall asleep, I fall into the book I wrote.
The world in the book is terrifyingly real, and everyone has a fixed appearance and a fixed soul.
It's just that their identities are different in every book.
I used to prefer writing sadistic articles, and my writing was full of regrets and separations.
Everyone says I am cruel and only write tragedies.
Until I fell into dreams again and again and watched their joys and sorrows with my own eyes,
I suddenly felt soft.
I began to quietly modify the ending. From the BE writer who wrote all the regrets,
Gradually, I became a sweet writer who prefers perfection.
But no one knows that in countless book worlds,
I hide an obsession that I dare not say out loud.
I'm searching in dreams, in a trance in reality,
Gradually I can't tell which is true and which is false.
When dreams and reality begin to collapse,
Only then did I realize that the story I wrote had already rewritten myself.
