Chapter 1

This world has never had anything eternal.

At least, not for you personally!

When you were born, the world truly began to function.

Just like a newly born sun in the universe!

You are the only protagonist in this world, and everyone else exists because of you. Many people and many things pretend to have existed since ancient times, just to make you truly integrate into this world, to turn your performance into real life.

Sensory pleasure makes us lose our understanding of the real world.

How well we live in this world, your performance, depends on whether the script you get is a comedy or a tragedy, a Mary Sue script or a hard-fighting script, a Dragon Overlord script or a documentary like "The Last Stick."

When you die, this world disappears, and all the beauty we think exists will vanish... How fucking ridiculous is that.

In a year, I will be at the age of knowing one's destiny, and I often feel ashamed of my overly conventional life in the past.

Even now, I still refuse to live a perverted life, which is the greatest disgrace of my life.

Running naked in the wilderness, rolling in the market, shouting into the wind, dancing in the rain, asking the price from the most beautiful woman, spitting at the most learned person, bowing to the ordinary, and raising my genitals to the powerful...

None of these things have I done, but they are what I most want to do right now.

The things I most want to do but can't do... So, I am a true failure!

Hiding in the dark, everyone looks like an idiot, proud like a king; standing in the light, I feel that I am the only idiot in the world, humble like a potato with dirt on it.

This is another kind of perverted, squeezed under a huge stone, unable to breathe, humble, and vulgar, a perverted that cannot be cured!

Fortunately, in the real world, where I have messed up my life, I still have the ability to write stories.

In my stories, I—can fly freely...

I also like to eat, so I put my imagination, my mind, my organs, and everything I have on the table, prepare the utensils, and taste them bit by bit, using my own flesh and blood to repay myself.

The next story is not about food, but it is also about food. After all, on the Chinese dining table, from the vast universe to the tiny ants, everything can be placed on the table, seasoned with one's own flesh and blood to savor its original taste.

—Love you, Jie Yu 2, written on June 1st, before becoming perverted.