A so-and-so detests the love-thinking found in all novels—the stories and characters alike—just as one might detest a rat’s head with no flesh, no skin, no tendons and no blood, and a rat’s tail with no fur…

On a calm and sunny early morning M years ago, when all things were at peace, free from strife and discord, the rising sun gently enveloped a so-and-so's little head in a cloud of pure air—neither cold nor warm, neither advancing nor retreating, neither gathering nor dispersing—whilst all the green on the ground and all the blue in the sky were quietly woven by the radiant sunlight into a beautiful, net-like pattern… The reason so-and-so's head is small is because their neck is thick; the reason so-and-so's neck is thick is because their right brain is contesting the left brain with all its might; the reason so-and-so's right brain is contesting the left brain is because their left hand is constantly being arbitrarily suppressed by their right hand; the reason so-and-so's left hand is constantly being suppressed by their right hand is because their right pinky-finger is growing thicker and thicker; the reason that person’s right pinky-finger is growing thicker is that they are constantly bickering with time… On a pitch-black, stormy night N years ago, all things were still at peace; the radiant sun and the blazing sun in that person’s mind were serene, and the greens and blues on the computer screen were equally vibrant, when, to their surprise, a pure breeze appeared on their mobile screen—both light and still, so still that even the single person, the mountain, the lake, the fish, the flower, the bird and the tree in the photograph were all radiant with pure smiles; so light that it felt as though their pinky-finger, right hand, left hand, neck, right brain, left brain and little head had all dissolved into a pure tunnel of time and space… There are countless nights of pitch-black darkness and howling winds, and countless mornings of gentle breezes and bright sunshine, but there is only one moment when someone slips into a love-letter—slips into the wind, into the night and the morning, into the sun and the moon, into splendour and pitch-black darkness, into all the web-like beauty, sliding into all the squabbles between that person and time, and into all the pure smiles and tunnels of time and space, and even further into that dead-angle in the courtyard, sheltered by those three fruitless trees—where that rat’s head, devoid of flesh, skin, tendons or blood, and that hairless rat’s tail, were suppressing a chuckle at that person amidst the vivid green of that very dead-angle.

Suppressing that chuckle, holding back the indeterminacy, forcing a feigned grin—laughing at so-and-so who’s fixated on every nook and cranny of the green walls and green grounds.

The withered leaves in the corner ostensibly huddles together in an attempt to flee—either into the trenches beneath the tree roots or into the embrace of the grass—but above all, they do not wish to be dragged by so-and-so into the dark passage of time… The broken twigs at the edge lie there all alone; they had intended to slip silently into the lush foliage of the green wall, yet can only end up, stripped bare, as fertiliser for the dark times breaking through the earth… The withered leaves are dead, the broken twigs are gone; it is the wind that pushes them into the corner or towards the edge, and it is the wind that elevates them to become time’s fertiliser—making time grow ever smaller, so small they resemble seeds in a dark passageway—seeds that holds indeterminacies, seeds that wear a false smile, and seeds that can break through the earth, push loathing to its extreme, drive purity into the shadows, and thrust love-letters into a single, fleeting moment. How many seeds, after all, are hidden in that dead-angle? Those three fruitless great trees have been sprouting from the earth for Q years; countless branches, leaves, passions and beauties have been pruned from them; countless times they have been buffeted by the wind to the point of wanting to quarrel, flee or collapse; countless times they have longed to be propelled into a tunnel of pure spacetime; and they have witnessed countless seeds quarrelling with time on sunny mornings or on moonless, stormy nights… The vivid green in that dead-angle is the masterpiece created by countless seeds breaking through the soil year after year; it can be pushed into the pure wind on a moonless, stormy night, or wrapped in pure air and a web of beauty on a calm and sunny morning, or even, in the very instant when no flower can bloom, be harshly dragged into that rat-head and hairless rat-tail devoid of flesh, skin, tendons or blood.

In the moment when no flowers bloom, is the green expanse a web of beauty in its purest form? The vivid green is enough to engulf the blue of the sky.

This engulfing stems from a web-like structure. So-and-so’s feet have defiled the purity of the vivid green, smearing restless black mud and yellow sand across the tranquil green expanse as a mark, and have crushed droplets of dew—sheerer than tears, more pristine than tears, into the murk of the mud and sand; and have buried alive, within two green hollows from which mud and sand spatter in all directions, twenty-two tender seedlings whose spines have been snapped, whose skins have been crushed, and from which yellow sap and black liquid have been squeezed out… When so-and-so’s feet were swallowed up by the boundless fresh green, the green expanse had long since swallowed up the blue sky, and so-and-so’s eyes could no longer see the tender shoots, sap, skin, spines, mud and sand, dew and holes; the depths of their eyes had also been hollowed out of withered leaves, broken branches, tree roots, tufts of grass, corners, boundaries and secret passages, leaving only that mouse’s head and tail—which had already broken through the green wall—drifting gently amidst the tranquil green waves—between them, a 23-centimetre-long void was quietly maintained… When the green waves, the green walls, the green ground and all the vivid green were swallowed up, every eye in the universe was utterly engulfed, whilst so-and-so’s hands shattered in an instant into a powdery fertilizers—led by the largest grain, a long trail of fragments and dust drifted slowly from the bone crevices of the rat’s head towards the tip of its tail: That rat’s head, devoid of flesh, skin, tendons or blood, resembled a hollowed-out, deep-grey equilateral triangular pyramid—emitting a meticulously refined, vibrant aura from the gaps between its six edges and the holes in its four faces, that hairless rat’s tail resembled a slender cone with a smooth, flat base cut out of it—the smooth little circle slipped away from the vivid, glossy black solid cylinder to become a plain little dot; between the parallel equilateral triangular base and the circular base lay twenty-three centimeters of empty space—all the fertilizers, as it passed through here, left behind, at random, just enough indeterminacy to allow a seed to break through the soil. Has so-and-so’s left and right brain been completely swallowed up by one of these indeterminacies? The apex of the equilateral triangular pyramid—seems to be striving to burst through a gap seven meters away, whilst the apex of the cone—appears to be bidding a reluctant farewell to that dead-angle three meters away; and the skull and tail between the two apices form a repulsive structure—as if an unfortunate rat, slaughtered, were still alive, complete with head and tail!

Who is the murderer?

So-and-so’s right index finger had once been gently nibbled by the head of a greedy little mouse… So-and-so’s right thumb and index finger had once pinched the nimble tail of a mouse—causing its dainty little head, suspended upside down, to wobble and struggle as a rusty pair of pliers squeezed from it a long string of crisp, damp notes… The soft rim of so-and-so’s right ear had once been gently lashed by a mouse’s tail falling from on high whilst they slept soundly—the piercing cry, inextricably linked to the tail, penetrated deep into the right ear canal in the darkness of slumber… So-and-so once sealed a pair of mating mice inside a pristine white woven sack—and then used the mere sound and weight of the sack’s base to kiss a brick wall, its red patches growing ever more numerous, with fierce intensity… So-and-so’s eyes had once dissolved the hundreds upon thousands of mice beneath the azure sky—their bodies pressed head-to-tail, shoulder-to-shoulder, as massive as mountains, their cries like a tide—into a single drop of cold, curled-up, deep blue-black viscous liquid; and then allowed the deep-azure beauty of their mind, like a lake or a sea, to heavily obscure the figures faintly visible within the liquid’s shadow—its gender indistinguishable, with thick whiskers, erect ears and drooping eyes, with pointed snouts and smooth skin… So-and-so’s left hand once offered a charred thumb and a stiff index finger to a flock of grey rats who loved to frolic in the open fields amidst the evening breeze and the setting sun… So-and-so once, beneath the milky-white glow of the night, had sewn together with a steel needle and grey thread a massive rat with white skin, a white head and a white face, black eyes, a black tail and a black mouth, yet without ears, legs or fur—its plastic tail, very short, very thin, very stiff, very straight, very flat and with a sharp edge; a pair of plastic eyes, round on the outside and square on the inside, with four round holes neatly supporting the four square corners; a tiny plastic mouth as though a mouthful of white teeth and a face full of grey whiskers had been concealed within a black circular shield; a cylindrical, stocky body tightly wrapped in coarse white cloth over a pair of tattered black cotton socks; a bizarre appearance with no distinct separation between head and body, yet a sharply pointed tail—had already quietly turned so-and-so into a complete and utter laughing stock… Who, perhaps, had once accidentally stepped on the soft, thick back of a rat—slowly sliding forward into a dizzying haze shattered by two kinds of screams; have they long since silently imagined the pair of cute front teeth hidden within that sharp little mouth as bloodthirsty steel guillotines capable of quietly severing a giant’s neck; might they secretly loathe a love-letter written by so-and-so and painstakingly pieced together—and gently file it away as a joke layered with indeterminacy, a story told in fits and starts, and characters that feel hollow and empty? Fragments, are growing larger and larger.

That 23-centimeter-long, hollow and void, has an axis — an axis driven by fragments.

The sole remaining rat-head, nothing but a framework of hard bone: a regular triangular pyramid, charcoal-grey, with bone cavities and fissures; no mouth, no eyes, no ears, no nose, no neck, no tongue, no face, no forehead, no whiskers, no acupoints, no brainstem, no brain matter, no skin, no flesh, no blood, no tendons, no nerve endings, no capillaries, no flesh spurs, no bone spurs, no teeth…

All that remains is a rat-tail—straight, tapering to a point, pointing towards a corner—speechless, yet leaving behind a string of intermittent yet intertwined indeterminacies…

Do all love-thinking stories or characters that so-and-so detests include these boundless dead-angles?

A beam of morning light casts a gentle glow upon a pair of mouse heads and tails, silent amidst the green waves and the scent of grass—illuminating them as if they were a meticulously crafted and rare art work.

Half a piece of love-letter: the word-origin and word-terminal — no starting point, no landing point, no origin, no terminal…

So-and-so has already admitted to loathing.

So-and-so has not admitted to fallacy.

The head and tail of the love-letter, where are they?