I do not expect a friend a hundred years later; I know that my dream is in conflict with my understanding.
Yet, I still imagine that a reader shall take one of my works in their hand after one hundred years of solitude; hopefully, my imagery shall appear vaguely in their mind.
I understand that the wise will laugh me off as a fool; in fact, I am second to none in looking down upon myself. Sneering at my foolishness, I cannot help pitying my fanciful idea. Or I cannot but sympathize with the common weaknesses of all human beings.