May Everyone in the World Die

Because I'm in my final year of high school, this story is temporarily on hiatus. I've thought up a lot of the plot, and it's going to be a very grand story... So the hiatus is only temporary. When I come back, I'll definitely finish it! To be a little ill is indeed a kind of blessing. But two conditions must be met: First, the illness must be mild, not cholera, dysentery, the Black Death, or something like meningitis; Second, you must have at least a little cash on hand, so you don't go hungry if you spend the day lying down. If either condition is lacking, one is but a common person, with no appreciation for the refined pleasures of illness. May everyone in the world die, leaving only me, a pretty girl, and a vendor selling flatbread; may I spit up half a mouthful of blood at autumn dusk, and, supported by two attendants, weakly make my way to the steps to look at the autumn begonias. At first glance, it seems bizarre, but in fact, every detail has been carefully considered. "Spitting up half a mouthful of blood" has its purpose. Talented young men are often sickly, but if they're to be "often" sick, they can't be seriously ill. If each time they spit up a bowlful or several pints, how many times could anyone possibly spit up that much blood? After a few days, the refinement would be gone. From Lu Xun's "A Casual Poem on Sick Begonias, Sent from Afar to Mr. Dazai Osamu"