At the boundary between reality and illusion, scenes unfold like a scroll, only to collapse in an instant. You think you are standing outside the painting, watching with cold eyes, but you don't know that you have been deeply involved in it from the beginning and become a part of the painting. Every detail, every conversation, seems so real that it's within reach, but it's just a false beginning, a carefully woven illusion.
Is it the chaos of the magnetic field that distorts time and space, intertwining reality and illusion, or is this all a man-made conspiracy? Are those seemingly accidental encounters already destined by the brush of fate? We wander around in the painting, trying to find an exit, but time and again we find that the so-called "exiting the painting" is just a bigger trap, a nesting of paintings within paintings, and an endless cycle.
Maybe we never really painted in the first place. The freedom we think is just a stroll in the painting; the truth we think is just the light and shadow in the painting. We are trapped in the painting without realizing it, until at a certain moment, the fragments of truth are like broken lenses, reflecting dizzying light.
Was the encounter between us accidental or inevitable? Is it destiny or the inevitable direction of the plot in the painting? We search for answers, but lose ourselves. Every choice and every struggle invisibly pushes the story in the painting deeper into the fog.
Everyone is a chess piece in the painting, and everyone is a chess player. We try to solve the mystery, but we don't know that we are also trapped in the mystery. Where does the truth lie? Is it the end of the painting or the starting point of the painting? Is it the world in the painting, or the reality outside the painting?
Purpose: No matter what the world is like, we must take life seriously