“The you in your memory right now is not the real you. You didn’t come to Tibet for sightseeing this time, but to search for that thing in your subconscious that you can’t let go of.” Ms. Black stood up, handed me a business card, and said, “If you want to recover your memory, I can help you. Mr. Jackson, contact me when you’ve made up your mind, I’m always available.”

As I took the business card, my first reaction was that I’d run into a scammer.

It’s said that nowadays there are some high-IQ scammers who specialize in brainwashing, actually managing to convince normal people they’re crazy.

I glanced at the business card. There was a string of numbers on it, and six Chinese characters: 白日梦工作室.

Suddenly, my mind exploded, as if something had gone off inside.

Just like how I’d felt that Ms. Black looked familiar, at this moment I felt even more that I was very familiar with this 白日梦工作室. But there was a problem: I clearly remembered that I’d never had any contact with this studio, didn’t know what it did, and had never even heard of it before.

At this moment, my thoughts split into two fragments.

In one fragment, I was a middle-aged man gradually growing old. With my youth gone and my prime behind me, I’d lost the motivation to strive, and could only desperately reminisce about those years of youthful exuberance.

In the other fragment, I stood at the bow of a ship, gazing at the endless sea. I took off the straw hat on my head and pressed it to my chest, shouting at the ocean: Gomu Gomu no, I will become the Pirate King!

Each fragment occupied half of my mind, and I didn’t know which one was real.

“The you in your memory right now is not the real you.”

Ms. Black’s words echoed in my ears, lingering.

The reason I see a psychiatrist is because all sorts of exaggerated scenes often pop up in my mind. These scenes shouldn’t appear in a normal person’s head, yet I always feel like I’ve experienced them before.

Am I living in reality, or in an illusion?

The me right now, and the me that Ms. Black spoke of—which one is the real me?

I felt like Ji Wubing in “My Own Swordsman” who got tricked into limping by the scholar, with an urge to smack myself on the head.

Clang, clang—like glass shattering on the ground, the two fragments broke into pieces.

I snapped back to reality and realized I needed to take my medication.

No joke, I really do need to take medicine. A few months ago, I was diagnosed with mild schizophrenia, with occasional auditory and visual hallucinations. This has caused me a lot of trouble, and it’s been a huge burden on my family as well. Just now, I probably had another hallucination.

I took out a bottle of mineral water from my bag, and after taking my meds, I felt much better.

I thought, everything just now was a hallucination. I never actually met a Ms. Black.

When I write, I often get too immersed in the story.

Many years ago, when I was writing a cultivation novel, I always felt like there was a nascent soul inside me trying to burst out. Later, when I wrote a time-travel novel, the first thing I did every morning was check if I’d successfully arrived in another world. Then, when I wrote an online game novel, every time I saw a motorcycle helmet, I felt like it could connect me to the game and to beautiful women for some XXOO.

For a while, when I was writing urban novels, all sorts of women in all sorts of sexy pajamas kept popping up in my mind. But here’s the thing: I haven’t written an urban novel recently, and I even considered retiring and never writing again. So it’s really puzzling—where did that Ms. Black come from?

A few seconds later, I stopped being bothered by this question.

I found a little thing—a black business card with white letters.

On it were six characters: 白日梦工作室.

Chapter 004 Ms. Taylor

“Bro, calm down, you have to calm down…”

I muttered to myself, warning myself over and over.

Right now, I was extremely agitated. Usually, when I get agitated, I start yelling, and if it gets worse, I start smashing things.

That business card was the root cause of my agitation.

Once again, I couldn’t tell fantasy from reality. Maybe my expression was a bit twisted, because passing travelers were giving me strange looks. I ran into the restroom and sat on the toilet for some deep reflection.

“Alright, I ran into a Ms. Black, that chick is a scammer, I won’t fall for it…”

I didn’t know if this counted as self-hypnosis, but comforting myself like this did make me feel better.

To make myself feel even better, I decided to recall some funny stories—when you’re in a good mood, everything is better.

Sitting in the restroom, the first thing I thought of was a story related to the toilet.

One night, I was singing at KTV with a group of friends, guys and girls. That night, I had diarrhea, and halfway through singing, I went to the bathroom. Just as I stepped out of the room, a girl whose figure I really admired chased after me. She was pretty drunk and insisted on having a private chat with me. But you know, when a man has diarrhea, who has the mood to chat privately with a girl?

I really couldn’t hold it anymore. Between taking a dump and flirting, I chose to take a dump.

By the time I came out of the restroom, the girl had already left in a cab.

After that, we became strangers.