Everyone knows there's something wrong with me. They're all waiting for me to finally confess everything. All this time, I've been living in a glass house, keeping my thoughts to myself, yet believing no one could see them.
Theme: The cruelty of reality can't be rewritten at will like a novel. Otherwise, why would so many people put their hopes in the Bodhisattva? And why can't I keep living with strength? Isn't it because the Bodhisattva can't save all those wretched people? I've only lost the person I love, while some people don't even have food to eat, so of course no one will pity me.
What is love in this world?