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我欢长寂然     — a little solitude, meng jiao (trans. r. earle harris)

"Before you drain me, I'll be long talked to death." "As is my right."

No amount of years has been able to bestow on this man some sense. Truly, he will be the Demigod of Illiterate Poetry and Suicidal Ignorance. "You dense dropped egg," Yin Ya hisses, relishing yolk at the summon of it, offal, the groan of skin under teeth before it splits, "I am warning you—" What I am, he cannot anymore admit.

He has been reflecting much, these past days, on the permittance of his violence. Not in service of change — a useless thought. But in reform of its moral. Reconsidering the demands it assuages, what it protects in name of its cause.

cr: shasmy

It is the nature of the fox to trick, be such mischief playful or mean. And it too is the nature of the fox to have a neck that fits cosily between the tiger's teeth.

This, then; it is not something they've done before, but neither is it something they would never do. Possibility, under some illumination, becomes easily indistinguishable from the inevitable. Forthcoming, for its very nature, is to be something that follows.

Branches of Syncretised Cultivation in Love's Rebellion

Xiansheng. Have you ever regretted it?

"Ai, Nu gui-jiejie cursed us in our next lives to be wed, but Yin Ya still has resentment. You'll tie yourself to a ghost seeking revenge."