I'm a complete beginner, and my writing isn't very good. I've wanted to write a book for a long time, and this is my first attempt. I've read novels for years, and one day I suddenly wondered: Why do so many people love reading novels, even to the point of obsession, when they seem to do less for everyday life than a bowl of noodles? Calling them spiritual nourishment feels too grand. Maybe it's because the world is so cold. It isn't as beautiful as we imagine, and when people are lonely, all they can do is hug themselves. Their expectations are already so modest, yet even those go unmet. Novels fulfill our fantasies. In them, you can live easily, without pressure or regrets, and everything is perfect. But in the end, you still have to return to reality. I wanted to write, so here I am. This book has no description. Read along if you want. Updates are irregular. If you don't want to read it, then don't. No nasty comments, please. I'm still a kid!
