Epilogue: The Long Battle

At 6:21 PM on July 1, 2021, I began writing this final little post. At the time, I had a terrible cold, my nose running like a faucet, and I had gone through a huge pack of Tissue Paper. I also had a pile of work waiting to be done, and I was frantic with anxiety.

But I chose to sit down quietly and write one last thing, to put a period on it all.

On October 13, 2022, more than a year later, I unexpectedly opened this book again—and, coincidentally, I had a cold again. As requested, I made scattered revisions to some chapters and storylines, like cutting away unnecessary branches. I also filled in some details and corrected some inappropriate wording, smoothing it all out.

As I reread it while revising, I felt both horrified and amused. How had I managed to write a novel like this back then?

There were parts I had thought were terrible back then, but upon rereading them now, I unexpectedly found them quite good.

There were parts I had thought were great back then, but rereading them now made me want to cover my face in shame.

I could hardly believe that this was a novel I had personally typed out two years ago. The version of myself I remembered sitting at the keyboard had become utterly unfamiliar, practically a stranger. It felt like an out-of-body experience. So people really could change this much—so much that they no longer remembered what used to be in their own minds.

If I came face-to-face with the me from a few years ago and we sat in the same room to talk, we would definitely end up arguing.

The me from a few years ago would angrily stand up and leave. "What kind of person