Ideas are not found in books.

 　　Life unfolds in a high-density, rule-bound manner, becoming as docile as a cat whose fur has been stroked. Learning, thinking, writing—these are sharp and dense, like needles, that's what I find fulfilling. Empty time breeds affectation, and out of a self-destructive mentality, I've begun to tighten these ropes, wanting to make the concrete jungle more stable.

　　When faced with terms like "thought," "novel," and "art," what people care about most is whether it can make money." Those who ask such serious questions—like "Can a person live without breathing?" or "Can breathing make money?"—are beyond words.

　　I believe that the clearer and more reasonable the rules, the more obvious the foundation and framework, the better the building blocks can be constructed. I love this world, not because big cities are dazzling enough, or small towns are tranquil enough. Those overused terms—elite culture, ideas—are unimportant.

This is an affluent era; I lack nothing. What matters is maintaining thought, passing through a minute of thirty-odd beats, or even slower, psychological time—pure, even purer. I approach death, I overcome fear, and when I close my eyes, I have a clear conscience.