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I ask, “is chasing each other a rivalry?”

He remains silent.

I ask again, “is challenging each other an illusion?

He remains silent again.

I ask once again, “where exactly are the head and tail of the alpha wolf?”

He still remains silent.

I got asked in return: “do those grinded teeth have hands and feet?”

Before asking, he lifted a leg, then dropped it, lifting and dropping to stretch one leg after another until stretched to the outskirts of a circular stainless-steel plate——as if stretched to the outskirts of a round lake, all legs stretched again——as if every leg remained silent at the outskirts of vagueness, and then bending its tail, its head, its mouth, then stretching a slenderly thin hand that’s seemingly there yet not there——grasping patches and patches of clear water that gathered then parted, parted then gathered, from the mirror-like water surface——and the other insignificant thick hand, meanwhile —— plays a wild and untamed symphony in unrestrained crisps and free-willed spirits within the onomastic melody amidst rounds and rounds of splattered water that parts at ease yet gathers onerously…

      I retreated into silence…

He’s as if a naughty wolf child that plays until thirst catches up with him, then goes to grab water, rinsing his mouth.

My eyes are like broken teeth that remains utterly clueless about teeth-grinding games.

The aperture in his illusion is lucid, capable of desiring hands, feet, humans…

My illusion, has yet to exert to its extremity, as if yet to strive, strive hard, nor strive in one’s utmost efforts.

He has already exerted his utmost effort in unison to grind his teeth, both treats me like a playmate ——  as we run and romp about in frolic pursuits, playfully polishing the sprinting abilities that every wolf cub should possess —— regardless if it has a complete set of wolf fangs —— at the very least, the sharpness of those wolf fangs must be expressed through these pursuits, he also teaches me as if I’m his pack member ——  even if my entire tail is crushed off —— even if all my fangs are smashed to pieces——I should still run with all my might through the gale, just like a werewolf whose tail remains and whose fangs are still intact —— and letting all pain sonorously sprout limbs capable of wrestling with the wind amidst runs that turns a prison into a garden —— and, above all, let all pain be bottled up at any moment and anywhere into a smile as light as a cloud in one instant, or a silly grin as fleeting as the wind dispersing clouds in the next instant…

Within an arrogant idea of mine caches a more arrogant idea —— “is he really not worried that I might cut his tail off, pull his teeth out or etch and tattoo on his tail?” ...

He is not permitted to catch sparrows or hedgehogs, yet he still tries time and again, as if to seize one idea after another —— not to capture a target of absolute certainty —— nor to secure an unchanged outcome —— but rather as if to catch one grey cat or black cat after another —— both pouncing and chasing —— both charging and dodging —— both advancing and retreating —— both confronting and gazing —— both displaying a lightning-fast posture and enacting a half-hearted vision and mindset —— both attacking with a bone stuck in the throat intensity yet also departing with a light-hearted chuckle, and even leading me in a game on a whim —— neither mocking the fact that my tiny mouth lacks a full set of wolf-fangs —— nor deriding me for having entirely lost the basic ability to express joy, anger, sorrow, or “yes or no” with a wolf-tail —— nor disdaining my sluggish running and clumsy leaping —— so long as I can dispel the arrogance from my eye sockets just a little —— his linguistic illusions would gladly reimagine me as a young werewolf within the pack —— and his linguistic intuition would, true to his nature, lead me into the teeth-grinding playground of the wolf-child —— and that me, narrow-minded no more, would become his playmate when he had completely consigned pain to oblivion —— a playmate who was both an illusion and a fellow rival…

My intellect, when illuding within his linguistic intuition, is full of flaws…

He has never illuded himself as the Big Bad Wolf, only to be consigned to oblivion in the corner of the Little Wolf Cub …

My intuition is one of his perspectives —— a viewpoint that has gazed upon the world from ten thousand years ago until now…

His intuition, however, is my blind spot —— omnipresent —— yet consigned to oblivion as though it had never existed…

My words can occasionally gaze upon his pain —— and the smile within that pain…

His language, on the other hand, has long since perceived my misfortune —— and the fortune within that misfortune…

In the corner where we share our silences —— no words can bridge the gap between him and I…

In the boundless space and time where we smile at one another —— language has always been the link between hand and eye…

I call out to him, Chiang-Chiang, one cry after another…

He draws and gathers a pack’s Chiang-Chiang to watch and witness…

Only when my scent matches the pack’s Chiang-Chiang will he wag his tail —— both waving and shaking hands…

Having no tail to wag, I reach my claws towards his neck —— using claws in lieu of a tail to wave and shake hands…

When I gaze at him, I am but a fragment within the pack’s Chiang-Chiang …

When he presses close to me, he becomes a fellow pack member within the pack’s Chiang-Chiang of trust……

Fellow pack member —— could be a cub or a wolf-child — or a werewolf or an alpha wolf……

Chiang-Chiang —— could be the pack’s howl or scent — or the echo of trust, or its lingering aftertaste.

This is to write.

Writing a love letter — a way of expressing indelible pain that lingers in memories, searching for portals after portals within the minutest details: there are withdrawals, tumbles, guilts, hatreds, confusions, sacrifices, disgusts, sentiments, avoidances, covers, greed, brutalities, cowardice, curses, obsessions, arrogance, skepticisms, immiscible, retreats… until so much so obsessed with — the contest between the canine-fang and the layer of thorns, love letters at last dismounts it’s thick amours, and the contest between I and I is at last no longer an unsolved riddle that’s mutually vigilant.

Contest — eternal.

A cluster of thorn — arrives stochastically, and goes free-willed, like a complete mystery in a surreptitious contest with indeterminacy.

The canine-fang remains. He once brushed against my fingers and palms with tremendous caution, allowing the viscous saliva to flow, at my discretion, between the fang-tip and fang-root —— allowing my sweat-soaked palms to, at my discretion, invade the diastema between the fang-tips —— allowing me to prop an index finger between his fang-tips, imitating a temporary bridge —— allowing the imagery of palms covered in blood and fractured fingers to replay silently in my head ——  I move, he doesn’t, a type of pain that crushes time into powder —— deeply freezes in my two cornea, there is yet another type of pain that can melt yearns into morning dew —— flowed from my pair of pupil into that paralyzed yet steady, simple yet honest appearance. At this instant, has the tip of the canine-fang-nerve descended into a state of ego-hollowing in silence? His natural instincts —— sends an attacking signal filled with gnaw and resistance, his imagination —— deploying segments upon segments of the molecular building-blocks of scents and odors as well as from a waveform graph —— that was the many welts left when I belted the canine-brain, and his sentiments have been provoked and violated, the threshold of his bottom-line has being broken through, his tolerance is on the verge of depletion, his talents flashes in blood-red… And yet, his faith still slides into the silence of pain —— allowing rubbing, allowing flirting, allowing seconds and seconds of pain to slowly drip towards the olfactory cleft; a thousand words, yet no need to be confessed.  

And yet, before the fang-root melted into powder or morning-dew, there must be a type of pain that needs to be spoken.

If spoken, might the pain quietly linger in some unnoticed corner?

Encounter —— is accentuated in the corner, like a grain of black sand that refracts and pricks intense glare that barged into the valley towards me. 

Pain  —— what is it? Taken away by thorns, shedding skin and shell, blockading and occluding ego.

Me is me, self is self, can they slip and flee together between the canine-fang?

Canine-fangs, like mountains: two rows of jagged mountain of fire (or volcanoes) —— two rows of volcanoes that evolves in parallel —— two rows of mutually reinforcing volcanoes ——  two rows of volcanoes that never leaves nor forsakes one another —— two rows of volcanoes that mutually express “existence yet unable to exist in fusion and synchrony” —— two rows of volcanoes that can simultaneously both remain silent yet still suffers their respective pain… the small and thin foretooth that was fractured whilst gnawing the rigid bone, is there any pain that the residual fang-root should express to the parallel foretooth? The parallel foretooth, does it also have pain that should be expressed to the residual fang-root? The residual fang-root, is there still pain it needs to express to the foretooth seized away? The seized away foretooth, does it also need to necessitate the expression of pain to the two rows of parallel volcanoes connected to the canine-brain? The two rows of volcanoes connected to the canine-brain, is there any pain that they need to mutually express to each other? Silence have been kept, the mountain with the aiguille and the valley with the snapped roots —— they’re, in fact, clueless what exactly is the fire in the two rows of mountain-of-fire, and the canine-brain’s pain of getting lashed and the pain of being ego-hollowed —— are both also yet to be genuinely expressed.

Expression —— like fangs.

Lashing and hollowing, are a pair of parallelly evolving pain.

The lashed and the hollowed, are two inseparable bonds. 

A pair represents survival, two represents serendipity.

Time and dust, yearning and morning dew, lashing and detaching, a pair and two, parallel evolving and inseparable bonds, serendipity and survival, stopover and encounter, intense glare and black sand, barging and refracting, carried away and clogged, emerging and slip & flee, expressing and venting…. all of which are pain that induces the eruption of fangs upon fangs.

Pain, what exactly is it?

Canine-fang, encrusted with grime —— black and yellow grime, grime laden with all manner of tartar —— permanently be denied a state of immaculacy, perpetually contain residue, eternally clogged.  

Clogged tooth gaps, the fractured fang-root, the fang-tip that was seized, the shape of the residual fang.

The fang’s shape — parallel.

Parallel teeth, like parallel thorns.

The fractured thorn, as if a refracted ray.

Light rays, hollowed, as if an action replay of lashing the mind again and again.

Action replay of a pair, action replay of two. 

Two factual realities, one pair of vividness.

AI, do you know what exactly is vivid-pain?  Fang tartar, black sand, both yearn the minutest imperfections of time.

Every embryo has grasped the echoes of life, this isn’t echoes from amniotic fluids or placenta, nor is it resounds that originates from humans and sapiens, it’s definitely not resounds from a parcel of line or a patch of sky, it is echoes from the universe; the universe, is not the vast sea of stars that situates the Earth —— nor is it the enigmatic world desired by humans and sapiens for the past two million years —— it is the unvast and unenigmatic existence-in-unity…

The echoes of life grasped by every embryo, is the responses of one idea after another.

An embryo’s idea, is sheer.

I, too, have got a sheer idea: fortunate individuals should detect their misfortunate counterparts, fortunate groups should also detect their misfortunate counterparts, likewise, fortunate persons should all the more detect the instances of their misfortunate counterparts… no one is bound to be fortunate seamlessly, no one is bound to unfortunate seamlessly either, everyone needs a minute dead angle —— even if it’s the most minutest dead angle —— to deeply gaze at the both parallel and existence-in-unity life structure of fortune and misfortune —— even if it’s merely a second or an insignificant instant of gaze.

Is the so-called dream-thinking merely a life lived for the sake of desire?

If any desire has become the purpose, goal, or ultimate direction of life, then whose dream-thinking does such an unquestionable desire actually stem from?

Words have dreams; language also have dreams; innumerous living organisms all have dreams …

Which dreams are merely the inertia left over from lethargy, which are the lingering favoritisms or prejudices of the half-asleep state, and which are the narrow-mindedness and arrogance of wakefulness —— which, whilst sparing no effort to erase any residual dead angles, also prevent any structure of fortune or misfortune from being deeply gazed?

I can choose —— to forgo any dream-thinking.

I can also choose —— to desire hands from one angle to another.

I can further choose —— to let one rough-hand after another gaze upon any desires from the dead angles.

I can even choose —— to write of pain or to be rewritten by pain.

It turns out that a pain situation, or endgame, is nothing more than a narrow-minded desire; an endgame on a chessboard or a tennis court is a desire of the utmost narrowness, for the chessboards and tennis courts I once desired were nothing more than sand tables or theatres where the very structure of life had been utterly hollowed out —— every win had nothing to do with my language or words —— every loss had nothing to do with my pain —— and all wins and losses served merely to drive me to completely forget the boundless unity structure of fortune and misfortune… As the sand tables or theatres of illusions I desired became increasingly confined to a miniature yet beautiful scale, a single smooth grain of yellow sand or a fleeting instant of tender comedy was enough to dictate all my intuition —— enough to sway all my perspectives —— enough to obscure every dead angle and all my pain —— and more than enough to render my language and words so hollow that all that remained were a series of games and illusions with neither an origin nor a terminal.

Wins and losses with neither an origin nor a terminal are both dead ends.

If a single, fragmented grain of silt were alive, could it choose to gaze deeply upon the tragedy of mud and sand?

Within tragedy lies comedy; within comedy lies tragedy; a comedy with only an origin and a terminal is a farce.

If love-thinking is desired as having only an origin and a terminal, any ups and downs are merely a one-man show.

Where does the role in this one-man show begin, and where does it land?

The illusion of language is that isolated language shapes intuition in isolation.

So it seems, love-thinking is a deadlock that is extremely difficult to break ——  a deadlock between different linguistic intuitions.

Can intuition, shaped by language, grasp the hand deeply concealed within the dead angles of words?

Hands.

Think.

Write.

Pain.

Vivid pain — revised expressions.