"A wayward child, spoiled by fantasy, but he didn't fantasize too much for himself. His fantasy is the whole world and all mankind, not the personal center.
Because' he has no home/a heart in the distance/he only has many/berry-like dreams/and big eyes'. Take the world as home, freedom as life, ideals as reality and dreams as poetry. This wayward child is as beautiful and lovely as so many beautiful things he painted.
"However, reality is always cruel, it creates fantasy, but it has to tear it. It gives children so many beautiful dreams, but it doesn't give them' colorful moments' to realize their dreams.
How can a child's fragile mind resist such teasing? He is too young to take other revenge, he wants to tear himself apart, and he can only take the escape of his dream as a weak resistance to reality.
"But reality is still reality, and children are still willful. Why does this pair of eternal contradictions become the sharp words written by street talk and theorists?
I remember an old saying:' No country knows, only I know, so I am in danger.' This may be a compliment I can give this wayward child, though it is insignificant. "