——Three Love Letters to the 7^th Gen AI（No.4）Part 01

Hello Title! It’s been a long time.

Subtitle, how are you? It’s been ages.

This Anchor-Letter has suddenly acquired a title and a subtitle that flow smoothly downstream, yet it is not a love-letter that winds its way through secluded paths—nor is it The Fourth Love-Letter to the 7th Gen AI; it is merely a retrospection and gaze—allowing The Three Love-Letters to the 7th Gen AI to reveal a more complete intuition-structure within words upon words… There are still no headings that resonate with such thunderous resonance.

To distance from a person is to distance from a series of headings, subtitles, and titles.

To draw towards a person is to draw towards the intuition-structure of a long string of words and terms.

Drawing towards is a matter of chance; distancing is inevitable; vivid-love is a chance occurrence within that inevitability.

Intuition-solitude is linguistic solitude.

A term-islet is a title-islet.

For or To — both are merely dispensable road signs.

A love-letter contains no love; a hotel contains no wine.

To stay in a hotel—is to have one chance encounter after another with the television, or to be reunited with it time and again, I observe whether it is mounted on the wall or placed on a table—or perhaps built into the wall or a cabinet—and whether it can be rotated or concealed… In most cases, it hangs on a smooth wall—neither freely rotatable nor easily concealed, I scan its increasingly square, increasingly symmetrical and increasingly large LCD screen, and its ever-more-concealed black plastic casing, whilst it, at a fixed angle, displays its increasingly monotonous and tedious content in all its vivid splendour… My bursts of laughter—would briefly linger amongst the white walls, glass doors and decorative paintings; their smoothness and depth—would instantly forget me entirely, whilst only the odd, utterly useless decorative painting would be remembered for a long time—vaguely captured by the lens of a casually raised mobile phone—and also, in a way that defies description, remembered by a faint, slipping interest-intuition.

Every television set bears a prominent brand logo—whether that of the assembler, the manufacturer or the marketer.

Decorative art—regarded as both cheap and trendy—is hung on walls, with no artist credited.

However, urban lighting—which makes buildings, roads and bridges more dazzling—has a steady stream of proponents.

Ever since my kindergarten days, my family circumstances have never allowed for a single television set.

As I was about to start Year 1 at primary school, I had not yet approached the gate of light—yet I was pushed through the narrow gate.

When I had just entered adulthood, one gate of light after another—much like the televisions in a hotel—welcomed me with dazzling splendour, promising to reward me with a wealth of captivating content, as if I were bound to be intoxicated by the constantly illuminated goblets of fine wine and the scenic buildings…

Unfortunately, my Interest-Intuition lacked any Language-Resonance with either fine wine or cigarettes.

If a person were to step enthusiastically into a Headline-Dazzling skyscraper—more resplendent than any of the surrounding hotels, and more three-dimensional than the frame-by-frame images of beauty shown on the hotels’ televisions—yet found that the space between its single unlocked door and the hundreds of small, dust-sealed doors was filled with emptiness and grime… If, at that moment, a few small piles of cigarette butts lingered in a corridor corner, that would be a sort of signpost.

I must admit—another extreme form of monotonous tedium has long since swept over my linguistic intuition.

Monotonous tedium can certainly be a neutral term.

Solitude carries no intuition-pain, only linguistic pain.

For a person to be pushed through a narrow gate is a misfortune, a fortune, and pain all at the same time.

My linguistic intuition is both a beneficiary and a victim; must it necessarily use one form of monotony to offset or dissolve another? Upon reflection, this is a cause for alarm, and leaves me with a complex mix of emotions.

Every television set inevitably exists, is fixed in place, is sleek, and is profound—all existing for the sake of the bright gate.

After countless choices, I came across one hedgehog after another—little hedgehogs that felt like both chance encounters and reunions; they were by no means small—more than three or four times the size of those loathsome rats—and only slightly smaller than the ellipsoid shape of an ostrich’s egg—like a miniature version of a porcupine—or rather, a performative version of a dog-badger or a hog-badger… In truth, I have never touched a real ostrich egg, nor have I ever observed a porcupine at close proximity, I possess absolutely no biological expertise to distinguish between a dog badger and a hog badger, and my knowledge of rats is limited solely to their notorious reputation and the noise they make. Hedgehogs, too, can emit a shrill noise on a quiet night; they, too, can leave a lingering notoriety in a peaceful corner—a reputation as distinct as their sound and as elusive as their breath; and they, too, can be found in a tangled thicket bathed in the beauty of a full moon and a gentle breeze—meticulously tearing apart and slowly savouring the flesh, bones and skin of a little mouse… Be that as it may, the hedgehog’s ability to conceal its quills far surpasses that of the porcupine, whilst its capacity to refrain from readily revealing its sharp teeth and long tongue is something neither the dog-badger nor the hog-badger can match; nor, of course, does it sit on eggs or shake off feathers under the scorching sun like an ostrich… What sort of creature is the little hedgehog after all? It is forever a patchwork of linguistic intuition, comprising favouritism, prejudice and obstinacy, as well as narrow-mindedness and expectations that have yet to be detected and recognised.

The little hedgehog loved a gap and a hidden door beneath the wooden deck—between the decking and the brick wall—which also marked the dividing line between the bright green lawn and the damp foundations—and the boundary between the dark, cluttered corner of mud and rubble, overgrown with wild grass, and the fertile soil—where clusters of greyish-white dog fur and patches of withered yellow leaves lay side by side… …However, that inconspicuous little door—often used as a screen against the weeds—is no longer the entrance and exit for the hedgehogs’ nocturnal forays into the dog’s territory. A round pebble the size of a rugby ball and six or seven delicate quartz stones, each as small as a quail’s egg, have been tightly packed together to fill most of the space in that gap… The free wind still passes through the cracks and holes between that pebble and those quartz stones—flowing in and out unhindered—and guides snails and earthworms as they crawl in and out on a moonlit, rain-soaked night; yet, through the gentlest of air currents, it gently urges the hedgehogs and grey cats to steer clear of that dark passage… Such a cleverly devised barrier—neither sealing the holes with quick-setting concrete nor filling the crevices with a few sharp nails or rows of serrations—does it not possess a certain natural and harmonious aesthetic? This is a misstep.

The little hedgehog, taking a detour, continued to patrol the dogs’ territory at night as usual, just like some kind of obstinate stranger.

Before that misstep, the little grey cat had not taken a liking to this path; whether or not such a misstep had occurred, that little grey cat did not care.

Narrow crevices or holes in the rock, or the slits between wood and stone, or earth and stone—like hidden paths, or perhaps shortcuts—were a privilege for the rats, and for the little ones, even a source of favouritism.

Which signposts do the rats harbour a prejudice against?

Bright red chilli powder and pure white menthol balls, like two distinct works of art, were woven into a novel idea, finally manifesting as a kind of air-current signpost scattered across the border zone.

The large television screen aims to convey elegance; it does not depict a mouse’s gums or sinuses in minute detail, nor does it vividly portray the expressions or gaze of a single mouse or a group of them; even if the area around a little mouse’s muzzle—where 18 whiskers are dancing and singing with grace—were to come into view, the television’s mirrored image would not lend any credence to its song or dance… When I switched on my computer and mobile phone screens—searching for biological images for Half a Love-Letter to a Ray of Morning Light—primarily focusing on neural network diagrams and skeletal structures of mice, the overwhelming sense of ugliness that washed over me still stung my consciousness and senses & perceptions second by second, minute by minute… The curved tails and conical heads of 105 mice—presented one by one in both fur and skeletal forms, revealing their interlocking structures and undulating textures in shades of black and red; occasionally, a cartoon mouse figure would catch my eye—as if gently injecting a soothing elixir into my taut throat and gums—allowing a few small streams of long-suppressed saliva to slide with relief down my oesophagus—and enabling the joints where my teeth meet my skull to relax and take a brief respite in unison… Where, exactly, has the aesthetic appeal of those biological images gone? I have a greater preference for the common name than the scientific title; mouse is the name of a species of mammal, a name that is both infamous and renowned.

One language can convey the term "rat" in an extremely complex manner, as if it were synonymous with the devil.

Another language, on the other hand, can convey the term "rat" with the utmost nonchalance, as if the Black Death had never existed.

I have long been given a heading—my Chinese zodiac sign is the "Rat".

When I first set out to write love-letters, I inadvertently substituted Totoro for mouse; and the former is larger in size, has longer whiskers, rounder pupils, a thicker tail, sharper incisors, longer and sharper claws, more prominent ears, rosier nostrils, and a glossier, blacker coat… When television screens, computer screens and mobile phone screens are all suddenly inundated with graceful love-thinking stories—as if lush green lawns were being overrun by damp lies, and as if the very word graceful had long since been swept away entirely by impregnable titles and subtitles—I shall continue to imagine the Totoro… The Totoro of my imagination is not one to be gazed at from afar or scrutinised; nor is it one that has been artfully distorted into a fake mouse with a round, boneless head and square, blunt teeth; rather, it is viewed from a free-spirited perspective—greatly elevated and widened—rising above my head and extending beyond the width of my shoulders; even its neck and arms are sturdier than mine—whilst the volume of its eyeballs and the hardness of its vertebrae are more than three times greater than mine, wrapped in layer upon layer of clothing—and protected by a pair of hard-soled leather shoes as I draw near its pungent scent—it stands silently upright beside me, like a giant rat that firmly believes in the laws of nature… In the slanting sunlight and the gentle breeze, I could no longer deny it—Totoro was merely a desire I’d heard of second-hand; I had not even managed to brush against its forearm or pat its shoulder, but instead drew close to it—a fist’s breadth apart—standing side by side facing an open vista—as if by unspoken agreement, we gazed together at a tiny speck; It did not smile, whilst I crouched slightly on my heels—at the same time, letting a silly grin spill from the asymmetrical corners of my mouth—and allowed it to drift, like a wooden carving resembling a giant rat, through the turbulent flow of those few dozen seconds—fearing only that, unable to contain its curiosity any longer, it might suddenly turn and bound away without a single glance back.

It turns out the fact that my family circumstance did not permit a television to exist—is a curious marvel I had never given much thought to.

Could it be that I had long since chosen a monotonous gift for myself—saying a long farewell to the language of the television?

Even now, I still detest mice, yet I can never prove it—for there are no mice beneath my feet or above my head.

What is a Chinese zodiac sign? It has nothing to do with me; if I must, my zodiac sign is the kangaroo.

My handwritten pictographic character for rat always lacks charm and substance, so I’ll piece together a picture using a photograph with a kangaroo instead.

Do these Totoros know that a certain rodent has been bestowed with the elegant epithet like a dragon, like a cat?

In certain contexts, the names of rats carry an aura of their own—unique and dazzling—as if they were feared, revered, or even treated as an resonant headline that can be stretched between the extremes of beauty and ugliness; examples include old worm, cunning worm, wastful worm and old thorn… Given that over two thousand species of mice detest bright red chilli powder, and I am a mouse-hater who both fears and savours the hot spice—though in truth I am more of a timid soul with a monotonous palate and a narrow perspective—might all mice be named La-La (or Chili-Chili)?

If the little hedgehog’s stage name were Lo-Le (short for Love-Letter), then this would open up infinite possibilities in linguistic intuition—creating a graceful overlap with La-La—or at the very least, allowing the two to be ambiguously interchangeable or flexibly substituted for one another… Since language games can be transformed so gracefully, might the seven headings—loves watching television, loves drinking, loves spicy food, loves performing, loves beauty, loves a good reputation and loves games—all refer to the same kind of love that can overlap or be interchanged?

Not a single word can make a kangaroo smile.

Not one little hedgehog cares about any name.

A single name can take a person away from start to finish.

A single word can sever a love from origin to terminal.

A television is a machine.

Camphor balls contain no camphor.

Parting with love—is there any love there?

It exists precisely because it does not exist.

The cartoon-style fabric Totoro in the shopping centre features only a few sparse, symmetrical antennae, densely stitched with black cotton thread: three on the left and three on the right, perfectly symmetrical, of equal length and width on both sides, both nestled within the soft, smooth surface of its face, and both resembling artistic patches that simplify complexity; neither has a sharp, pointed tip, and both merely highlight the contrast between the two colours, perfectly balanced, graceful, tranquil and exquisite—the hidden-stitch craftsmanship is now a rare and genuine presence in a landscape dominated by strong adhesive direct-apply techniques… Is it La-La? Would Lo-Le appreciate its exquisite antennae? If that kangaroo posing for photos with people were cordially invited to stand beside it, and if the scent of cotton, velvet, synthetic fibres, dyes, deodorants and plastic emanating from its entire body were all blended with the elegant, rich jasmine fragrance of formaldehyde-based perfume, would they then exist in relation to one another, or would they not? The television can make the non-existent exist, and it can make the existent cease to exist.

“What’s your zodiac sign?”

“I’d choose Hedgehog.”

“What type of persona are you?”

“I’ve created the Love-Letter Persona.”

“Which game do you like?”

“My Chinese zodiac sign is Kangaroo.”

A husky—approaching me as if I were a stranger, yet with the air of a professional and meticulous chemist—gave a casual sniff to a plush dog toy that looked exactly like him from head to toe, then, wagging its tail, stared silently into the depths of my eyes… As I swayed from side to side before its eyes, I could see a tiny, flat, grey version of myself wobbling about in each of its eyes; the soft toy dog, mere inches away, suddenly went limp and collapsed onto the solid wooden floor, as if it were a twig that had accidentally drifted down from a towering tree; With its eyes unblinking—it cast a disdainful glance at the floor that had just been wiped clean by a piece of plush fabric, and immediately resumed waiting to see how a faint yet intense aura might emerge from the depths of my eyes… Chiang-Chiang. He smiled, and so did I; I had named him Chiang-Chiang—a sound structure he had never heard in such a context—yet also a scent structure he was willing to trust; he would occasionally sniff curiously—wondering why my moustache was so short and changed daily—why my cry of Chiang-Chiang was constantly being recombined with ever-shifting scents—and why my Manifestation of Intention seemed to consist of an endless array of headings, subtitles, titles, and headlines that need to be painstakingly unravelled and organised. When a photograph of a kangaroo and a human is sorted without warning, let that unsmiling kangaroo be named Kang-Kang.

If La-La were as tall and imposing as Kang-Kang, would they fight standing upright?

If Love-Letter’s content were stripped down to sheerity, would the conflict within linguistic intuition last forever?

Fortunately, I encountered Lo-Le, which caused me to miss out on so very much.

A shattered love-letter need not to be illuminated.

The reason I have written the above rambling thoughts is that I have once again come across a term mentioned at the beginning of The Three Love Letters to the 7th Gen AI (No. 1)—video games.

What are video games? It doesn’t matter in the slightest.

If video games are merely an insignificant dead-angle, what might I be able to see through this angle?

Intuition-Transcendence is synonymous with Language-Confrontation. If one were to randomly extract a line of text from the internet—I want a blue chocolate—inertial linguistic intuition would invariably follow the visual cue and coalesce around a blue chocolate; within a single-layer linguistic structure, the world’s more than five thousand languages would all find it a simple matter to precisely identify and fully visualise a blue chocolate; However, within a multi-layered linguistic structure, a blue chocolate can be dissected into at least four elements of indeterminacy—a, chocolate, blue and one—each of which can in turn be broken down into at least three parallel structures; Compared to the visual structure of language, the auditory, gustatory and tactile structures latent within each element are often treated as subsidiary-structure or redundant-structure—indiscriminately subsumed into the visual structure—or even ignored as if they possessed no intuition at all; Yet, given the inherent nature of linguistic prosody and the individual differences in how people perceive sound, a blue chocolate a blue chocolate possesses a phonetic structure—the secret of its rhythm lies in one and force—and forms a circular, intuitive structure of rise and fall… Quantifiers (such as one) are often not merely dry numerical symbols in the realms of musical intuition, dance intuition, poetic intuition, pictorial intuition, literary intuition, photographic intuition and philosophical intuition; whereas abstract nouns (such as force) are the deepest and most intense points of complexity within linguistic intuition—in the process of language translation, they are akin to questioning whether an abstract world exists at all; A language may downplay the subject (such as the subject of a sentence), or downplay time (such as tense); it may emphasise shape or form (such as piece) or simplify colour (such as blue), but it cannot entirely conceal the speaker’s linguistic intuition—after all, negative space is also a traceable linguistic structure—unless the speaker entirely abandons any attachment to sheerity; I want a piece of blue chocolate—this sentence constitutes a form of linguistic confrontation in which the subject is absent, time is blurred, quantity is metaphorical, form is favoured, colour is signified, concrete nouns are nested within abstract nouns, abstract nouns contain conflicting structures, and adjectives conceal nouns; moreover, it pushes the origin, the terminal and the sheer structure into an increasingly alienated negative space… Given the extraordinary tenacity of linguistic intuition, intuition transcendence requires love-letters to advance into the sheer, unadulterated part of reality; it amounts to nothing more than confronting stubbornness with stubbornness, preference with preference, obstinacy with obstinacy, and structure with structure, whilst alienation serves more to continuously diminish the intensity and density of this linguistic confrontation—even causing the direction of intuition transcendence’s advance to veer off course… In any linguistic intuition, abstract verbs are more complex and vivid than abstract nouns, and any abstract verb is highly susceptible to structural rearrangement or conceptual confusion; Wanting a blue chocolate—in fact, all the negative space could be removed—and a blue chocolate could be completely disregarded—yet the only element truly worthy of a full structural examination is the word wanting; after all, the phrase wanting a blue chocolate only possesses a complete interlocking structure when suspended within the context of video games—just as Chiang-Chiang bites down fiercely upon and interlocks deeply with his own tail—just as to think perceives and gazes upon the complete to want from within a complete dead-angle—and just as a terminus, from within the dead-angle of a dead-angle, silently smiles at an origin.

Active and passive in linguistic intuition—will the lines and boundaries between them be blurred?

Love is the most simplest abstract verb.

Love means to resist and to transcend.

Is a single, simple word enough to recode or rewrite the structure of linguistic intuition?

Little Lo-Le and Little La-La, Little Kang-Kang and Little Chiang-Chiang, Little Stone and Little Narrow Gate, little me and little love-letters… The minutest love-letter may be nothing more than a single word or a number, either remembered with detachment—that is, vaguely consigned to oblivion—or stubbornly resisting or transcending in the dead-angles of solitude & islets… Video Games can also be the dead-angles of love-letters; games can also be the dead-angles of love-thinking; and the little mouse—even more so—can be the dead-angle of me.

Mice, eagles, tigers, Lao Mo [Old Unfamiliar]… Mice have the nickname Old-Thorn, and love-letters have the nickname Lao Mo.

Lao Mo—I’ve just made it up, because all of a sudden I’m not quite so averse to mice after all.

La-La—that’s a truly graceful name; my Chinese zodiac sign could well be La-La.

The little hedgehog’s nickname is Little-Thorn, and Love—its nickname is Thinking.

Lao Mo is actually capable of proactively-approaching and automatism-growing.