I am an unfinished book, an "author" under scrutiny.
When the content of my writing is realized page by page in the real world with blood, where is the real world?
When all the evidence points to him, and his life record all started seven years ago.
It seems that the meaning of my existence is to be the scriptwriter of this death drama.
When the boundary between fiction and reality completely collapses, we must face our deepest fear: Who is writing my life?
Concept: Where is the boundary between fiction and the real world?