Everyone knew I was abnormal, and they were all waiting for my final confession. I have always been the person who lives in a glass house, keeping my thoughts in my heart but thinking that no one knows.
Purpose: The cruelty of reality is not like a novel that can be rewritten at will. Otherwise, why would so many people put their hope in Bodhisattva? And why I cannot live firmly is because the Bodhisattva cannot save so many poor people. I just lost my lover, but someone else didn't even have food to eat, so of course no one would pity me.