This novel originated from a dream I had, a cold, scary but warm dream. What joy is there in life, and nothing fearful in death. Living is nothing more than slowly passing away time in the world of mortals. The joy, innocence, and warmth of childhood lose their color as they grow older. Sadness and joy are just a matter of a moment, who can care about whom forever. Parents and children, lovers and friends, beauty and ugliness, good and evil, have all become relative things. You can't find it everywhere in reality. Maybe in illusory dreams, there will be what you want to chase most.
Just like Zhuang Zhou dreaming of a butterfly, who knows whether my life is reality or a dream?