My rented apartment has a great view, and I often go out to the balcony to look at the scenery. Standing on the balcony, two roads lie before me, dividing the view into three parts. On the far left is a bay, its natural scenery very beautiful; people like to gather there for parties and games. By the sea there is a small park—though rather than a park it's more of a little grove—people often sit on benches to feel the breeze or spread a blanket for a picnic. In the middle is a small residential area with the occasional small restaurant where cheerful crowds gather. On the far right are the bustling high-rise buildings and a spiderweb of elevated roads—that's the city's CBD, with extremely busy traffic and lights burning all night.

One deep night I was leaning on the balcony railing. Traffic on the highway had already thinned to almost nothing—those tired drivers were probably workers who had just gotten off shift late at night, dragging their weary bodies, drowsy; the rows of streetlights ahead made me feel dizzy. Perhaps a driver's loved one had already warmed milk at home waiting for him, giving him a heartfelt calm so that he could drive home in a fairly good mood. There were two figures by the sea, sometimes strolling leisurely, sometimes sitting on a bench chatting. They might be lovers in the throes of romance, or close friends, sharing their joys and worries, fully living the moment and imagining the future. In the dim grove in the middle, someone was resting on a bench. He might also be a thinker, who in such a tranquil night finds a chance for his soul to speak with the world. Sometimes he listened in silence, sometimes he spoke softly. He was the brightest star in the night.

I rubbed my eyes—maybe I was a bit sleepy. But when I opened them, the world seemed completely different. Vehicles on the highway were still sparse, but they might be gamblers returning from the casino in high spirits; in the nightly whirl of decadence, everything they see is a flickering illusion, and even sitting in the car they see only the recently thrilling memories. The two by the sea, I feared, might be pitiable people whose souls had been deeply wounded and who agreed to end their lives together. Everything in life seemed meaningless to them; they were merely discussing whether their lives could get any worse. The person slipping into the dark grove might be a homeless wanderer, surviving outdoors. And I couldn't see clearly—maybe it was just a rabbit?

I'm not a god—I am merely the director of my own life—but I was wantonly inventing the lives of the people I saw. Moreover, I saw only people under the lights; more people live in the darkened houses and have long since gone to sleep. My conjectures may apply to many lives in general, but when focused on an individual under the spotlight they often turn out completely wrong. That's the difference between the whole and the particular.

Be careful drawing conclusions, or better yet don't meddle—why not go to bed early?

On this silent night, I wonder if there is someone else leaning by their balcony window, looking at the world, thinking whether there is someone else also looking at the world, and then sees him.