Whenever I dream back at midnight, I always wonder whether it is Zhuang Zhou dreaming of butterflies, or whether it is Zhuang Zhou dreaming of butterflies. If I am me, why do I have memories that are not my own? If I am not me, where do those high-rise buildings and neon lights on the streets come from?
Meeting him, was it fate or fate, was it an escape, or was it a moth flying into the flame?