似真而假的世界

The title suggests that his existence bothers you a lot. A sample of the world he is that threatens your ideas about reality.

Perhaps this is partly why your poetry sometime induces a feeling of the poet being tenderly burried underneath her poems. It is some compromise between reality and your ideas about reality: The world out there is bleak and gloomy, but at least I can breathe underneath the soft snow of my poetry.

An over-interpretation?