Epitaph Protocol 01: Wordless Stele

No proof of words.

The questions in this article can also be addressedWhat is a grave protocol?、Sci-Fiction *3How the concept of a relatively close read together is developed in different contexts.

Rain night, dry hill.

When the first piece of paper was dryed, the beam saw its own death.

That's not ink. The back of the paper was floated, and then a little bit, the gray words were seep out of the paper. The army officials thought it was a Dahir, and the bookkeeper fell on his knees in the mud and the creditors reached out to rob him. When it's the beam, there's only one tomb on the paper.

The dead man is a son of a bitch, Kyony. Less learning to engrave, more hand-wrecking. In September of that year, the post-Tang was ordered to dry the monuments and to swung them three days later. No wife. There are women, Nam Ning, who have been transferred to unknown.

The last four words are like knives, nailed to his eyes. The fire is shaking and the words are changing again. The military officers saw a message from the rebels, and the bookkeeper saw a new dynasty, and the creditors saw bonds, written in black and white, written that Min-Anning had been ordered by others. Everyone said people were wrong. Everyone says what they see is true.

The paper burned quickly. The words were in the black side, and it was gone.

Three days ago, the state town shop.

He was also called Leung Sing, at least in the book of the craftsman. The word on the bond was like a sorghum, and her daughter Anin called him "Aye." He makes monuments and grinds off undesired words. The stone-makers in the world of chaos live worse than the booksman, but longer than the soldiers. There's always a dead man. The living man has to make a few decent words. The engraved ones will not die of hunger, but will not be rich.

It was raining too much that year. The valley is not ripe. The soldiers have been here before. The state's city's festivities are about to find themselves a decent past. He was afraid to move the hill or to say what he and Leigh had to do with his blood, and asked only one person to build a tablet without words.

The job is in the shop, nobody's picking up.

Unmarked, sounds like crazy. If you can't expand it, you can't pass it; if you can, it's harder to say. The first one was to send the worker to Liang because he owed money and would have killed him.

The debt was not owed by him alone. He gave a county a burial plot, a stone that was watered and the roots were covered. He had three lines of work, and the nephew of the owner of the grave came with soldiers the following day, saying that he had lost one official in those three lines and humiliated his ancestors. The shop lost money, it was in his name. Arnin's account is in. Two more months later, the debtor can remove her from the name of the good man and send her to whom she will be sent as an escort.

The first line was to put the festive writing before him and say, “The mountain is big, it costs paper and ink. If you come back, you can have half the debt. If it's done well, the child's identity may be restored."

Liang asked: “What can be done to expand the tablet?”

The line starts looking at the rain outside the door and says, "It's supposed to be written."

Rain night, dry hill.

The movement has not reached much of the hill. Two soldiers, one bookkeeper, three handyman, and Liang. The debtor followed him. He was not an official, but he took Anin's account and said he was afraid of the beams.

Mount Liang looks like an animal in the rain. The stoners on both sides of the hill road lacked arms and ears and were bluntly sharpened by the wind. The day is fine, and at night the grass is full of water. The army officials said it was rain coming down from the stone, and the other said no, there was a river in the hill.

Liang Sung didn't answer. He's seen too many graves and knows the most voices around them.

And of course, the night of Liang was not the stone that the tourists saw today. The poems and names of Song and Kim have not yet come, and the writings of the Chinese are still in their hereafter. It's almost blank in front of him.

This is higher than he thought, and the rain follows it down like some people pour water from the top. The tablet is luminous in the shadows, and it can see light texture near, but without the lines of the inscription, let alone the lines of the inscriptions that it wants to see.

The beams touched the surface and the fingertips were shaved by sand.

The bookkeepers were holding the umbrella and pushing him.

Liang did it by the rules. Put the net up, drive air from the middle through the middle with a soft brush, then get the ink and gently slap it. Paper is out, only stoned, like a frozen surface. Book frown. The military garbs scolded the trash paper. The creditors were holding Arnin's account, and they laughed.

The second piece of paper just got on it and suddenly it's raining. And the wind turned the umbrella over, and the paper was drenched on the tablets, and it was not revealed. The beams are afraid of paper. Take the sleeves. At that moment, he felt that the palm was not a stone, but a skin that was slowly breathing.

He's afraid to say.

When the rain stops, the paper finally comes out. The paper is still empty. The military had been impatient, and had been told to lay fire to the broken walls, dry the wet paper and try again tomorrow.

When the fire set fire, the first word came out of the paper. It became clear later that it was not a stale stale, but a crack.

Cracks.

No one sleeps that night. The soldiers were guarding the tablets, and the bookkeepers had written in their accounts the words they saw, and had torn them to pieces in half. He said that the years were wrong and the authorities were wrong, and that reading was readable in a way that had been practised many years ago. The creditors held the bill and woke up twice in the middle of the night and called Arnin a pledge.

Liang sat outside the account, with a small platter of wet pulp in his hand. The nails are covered with stone powder.

He did it again at dawn.

Dry paper without words. It's wet and it's not wordless. Only when the paper is dry and placed between the tablets and the air, and it is not determined whether it is paper or the coat of tablets. Words won't stop for long. Hot, fast, floats; wind blows, it blows. If a man is to read it before it is dispersed, it will fill his heart with a part of it.

Liang tried not to read, read only the drawings. He found out that the words were not really carved in stone. The tablets are too flat, no roots, no blades. Words are like a little bit of paper borrowing from behind rocks. It's not ink, it's eyes.

After noon, the rain stopped for a moment. He went around behind the tablet and found a crack. The cracks were filled by the former people, and the patches were covered with thin slabs, and the crafts were extremely high, and they were barely recognized. But the rain is soaking and the stitches are loosed. Sing slinging out a little old ash with bamboo stickers, and a piece of rock in it that is thin as a fish.

There's a word on the stone.

Not the tablet. Not like the title. There's only a few words, very shallow:

No additions.

Don't expand.

No papers.

The last one was badly worn, and only half:

The reputer, the...

Liang has been watching for a long time and sweats on his back.

The bookkeepers have been called. He had a sharp eye, saw the beams in his hand, and immediately reached out to rob them. Liang hid, and the bookkeeper saw the word "no more" and his face was white.

"This is the sacred tablet." The bookkeeper whispered.

"What sacred tablets?"

Bookkeeper shakes his head. He said that he had hidden an old book in his home, and that there was a secret decree in the late years after the martial arts, which was not recorded, nor had it entered the country's history. It is not for a generation, but for all the later. Whoever gets it can tell us what to do.

Liang says, "Do you believe?"

The bookkeeper's lips are shaking: "We don't believe it. But I saw the fate last night, and my name was in it. It says I should have been a middleman, not here to grind Wulf."

It is difficult to feel that a person's life is real when he sees it.

Evening, the good-looking horse is here. The order was short: it was expanded in three days and escorted back to the state city. If there is no writing on the tablet, then the proof of absence is drawn; and if there is writing on the tablet, no less shall be done.

Liang knows that this is the worst case scenario.

A complete Takumoto will enter the military palace. The bookkeepers will be transcribed, the military officers will be circulated, and the courtesan will be transformed into a hyena. The Mang would be posted to the gates, read to illiterate soldiers and taken to the next county. If that text really makes people believe in another history, the military palace is the best water channel.

Words follow orders.

Translation

On the second night, Leung secretly tied the creditors.

This is not decent. He took advantage of the debt-holders' asleep sleep, and he held his feet by the line of lined stone, and he put wet paper into his mouth. The debtor woke up with eyes like fish and a thud. Liang Sing touched Aring's account in his arms and threw it into his clothes. The paper is also warm, like a little piece of meat.

He didn't run. There were soldiers outside the hill. He couldn't get out. And the cracks are still there.

He needs to figure out what the tablet really wants.

The sorghum scrapes the mud by the old cracks and brings three more pieces of paper. The first one is only a crack, the second one is a half stone, and the third one is trying to be full. The third one just lays on, and the wind stops. The noise of the mountain also stopped. The whole hill was held by an invisible hand.

He heard the writing of the inscriptions.

Not engraving. It's writing. The pen fell on paper, with a slight sanding. Bing is up, rain is in the eye. There was still nothing on the tablet, but suddenly he saw an additional palace.

The palace has been burned. The beams are dark, the husks are grassed, the temple doors are open, and the nails are new. He knew it was the palace, although he had never seen the palace. He stood before the House of the House, and was drenched in his clothes, and he was still holding on to the parchment. Each door is covered with a tablet.

The first one says that Wu Zhou has never been cut off, and that Li Don is just borrowed clothes.

The second article says that if the rule of the master is given to the woman, the town will not be divided and the people will not be drafted over and over again.

The third article says that all the archbishops have lied since the dragons, and that all temples, placards and recordings should be re-listed.

There's more. Each one is neat, beautiful, like the best historian in the coldest hand. The beams are only reading a few lines, and they feel loose in their chests. He almost believed that his life was poor and that there was an explanation. It's not his bad craftsmanship, it's not his bad life, it's the wrong world from the beginning. If the correct tablet is expanded, the world will return to its place.

That's too comfortable.

It's so comfy.

He bit his tongue in the face. The blood smell smashes Miyagi. And now, the rain and the night, the stone. The third piece of paper has been placed on the tablet, and has been shown in the middle of the wall. The military officers stood behind him, with their eyes open.

"Turn down." The military officials said.

The beams are tearing up the paper.

The military garbs punched him in the face. He fell into the mud and his ears were buzzing. The booksellers went up and grabbed the paper, caught a few pieces, read it, and suddenly cried. He laughed and said that the first Emperor had not died, and that there was still a good deal.

The military slashed him.

This knife didn't cut it. The bookkeeper knew where the knife came from, leaned one inch to the side and cut off his hair. He went back to the knife and went off like a pen-shaker. That's why Liang understands that the words on the paper are not just for people to believe. It will replace the one who believes.

If they believe in the Dahir, they become soldiers who kill by the Dahir. If the bookkeeper had believed in his life, he would have begun to speak, walk and avoid the sword like the unexistent Chinese. If the creditors read the bonds, Arnin will be in his world.

Everyone gets a tomb that is the easiest to believe.

Those words don't seem to remember the dead, they're like preparing a path for the living that can be taken.

The beams were covered in a swelling face and climbed to the tablet. He remembered the words on the stone, “recognize, fill ...”.

To what, the stone didn't finish.

No words may be added, no words may be expanded, and no writing may be written. The old cracks behind the tablets are opening up like a no-rest.

He touched the sign in the arms.

Rain is fast blowing the ink, and Arnin's name is still there. The word "Ning" was watered away, and the last pen was long, like a trail. She suddenly remembered that she had written less than a single word. He laughed at her, and she was so greedy that she had to make the picture so long that no one would miss it.

The name is seen and caught.

The bill will catch Arnin, the bonds will catch the debtor, the craftsman will catch Liang. The same is true of the words in the tablet. It is not lacking in reason, in decree, in history, but in one who will be written and erased.

Liang is looking down at the account. The daughter's name is still there.

He was a little lucky at that moment. I'm glad I'm just a craftsman. I'm not a man of honor. It's worth it to make up this crack.

The truth.

There was a noise in the tablet before the third day of dawn.

This time, it's not a writing sound. Liang Sing heard women coughing, very light, and very old. It came from a lot of rocks and years, not like a ghost, more like a man who's been awake for too long and finally tired.

He did not see the after-effect himself. There was only one hand, and a page of the tablet was placed in the fire.

The inscriptions were not burned immediately. The fire licks the paper, but the words are brighter. Each piece can speak out, each has evidence, and each one can find the guilty for an era of indeterminate peace. Liang knows no history but understands the temptations. The worst fear for man is not to know why he suffers. The most feared is an article that explains all the suffering clearly and gives a knife.

That's what I might have met in the late years after the martial arts.

It's not poison. It's poison. It's blood. It's still capable of autopsy. It's not a demon book. The book of demons depends on the faith of the devil, but it does not. It only changes the way the world is explained. When you read some sentences, you get another clue to everything that's in front of you. The old friend became a traitor, the old master became a usurper, and his hesitation became the last weakness before fate.

If such words were inscribed on the tablet, they would not die.

The inscriptions are the best for living long. The inscriptions left behind by an emperor after his death must not be allowed to be too slow. The Hereafter can rebut it, but it must be read first; it can expand, but it will take it further away. As long as one generation reads the whole text, it can grow back with the institutions and grievances of that generation.

Liang saw many failures in the vision.

In one case, the middle man had made up the inscription, made half the writing, dropped his knife and opened the palace door at night.

In one case, the official took the inscription into the register and, 20 years later, the county of Tianxizhou was replaced by a non-existent year.

Once again, a military town in chaos was built up to be a soldier. Initially, the flag was changed in one county and all began to change the ancestors, the tombs were changed and the people were to be changed in which generation they were born. The road ends, and the living are no longer seen by memory, but are classified by text. The father and the son may be enemies of one grave and the husband and wife may never know each other for a year.

None of this happened.

It didn't happen, it didn't mean it wasn't coming close.

After the martial arts, they didn't carve their own work. She has put the words she wanted most, the words she was best qualified to say, the words she could convince, into the words she had. She gave her right to evaluation. The latter may scold her, and may argue for her, make up a story, write a poem on the tablet, or say that she is heavy in heart, and then die, and be guessed. Anything. Conjecture is scattered, argument is messy, chaos is safe.

There can be no one more than the right one.

When Leung woke up, the rain stopped.

The crack on the tablet was a little wider, like an open eye. One of the officers died, the other was pressed by the schoolman in the mud, and the name of a stranger was used in his mouth. The creditor somehow got the ropes and was lying by the shredded paper and licking the ash on the paper with his tongue. He licked it and said it was a lie.

Liang went over there and pushed him away.

The creditor looked up at him and suddenly he stopped, "Who are you?"

Liang has no answer.

He picked up the stone hammer on the ground and smashed his handiwork with wooden cards. The card is marked with his name, place of origin, master's hand and insurer. Every time he hits, his chest is empty. Then the bonds. He took the bonds out of the debt-holders' arms, torn them apart and mixed them into stone powder.

Finally, it's a private print.

The small print was from his master. It's bad stone, and there's a shortage of it. The sorghum is useless, and it is not safe to lose. He placed the seal on the tablet, and he hammered it down and it was broken into red ash.

Liang Sing.

Two words from the rubble, and then it's gone.

He rubbed together the craftsman's books, bonds, private seals, pulp, his own blood and rain, and he made a small ash. The ashes are light, but they're colder. He picks it out with bamboo, and fills it in a little bit.

The tablet is sucking it.

Not the kind of ash-eating stale. It's more like an old wound finally waiting for the first name that's willing to be pressed in. And the finger of sorghum was put on the tablet, and he heard his name being called from behind. The first sound was clear, the second was missing and the third was only one vague sound.

He didn't turn back.

When the cracks close, the tablets will appear in a small line of words.

The dead man is a son of a bitch, Kyony. Less learning to engrave, more hand-wrecking. In September of that year, the post-Tang was ordered to dry the monuments and to swung them three days later.

He looked at the line and then he said, "There are women, no names, no names."

Nothing.

There's nothing behind it.

Liang laughed. There's blood in your mouth. It's not good to laugh. He raised his hand and wiped the last bit of dust on it. The surface is cold like winter well water. The tomb begins at the end, without years, without place, then his name.

By dawn, there was still no official inscription on the tablet.

Aftermath

The good-looking man arrives after noon. They saw a piece of paper, a mad bookkeeper, two soldiers who thought they were anti-party opponents, and a creditor who did not know why he was in the mausoleum.

The creditors have a billboard in their hands. It says Arnin's name, correct, and the father's column is empty. The creditor said it had been held elsewhere, but it was impossible to say who was. The books of the tradesmen ' s houses were later turned over, and a section was missing, with debts coming from the front and from the back, and the only one that was sought by the creditors was the one that had no creditors.

And the question was, "Where are the potters who built the tablets?"

No one can answer that.

They found a stone hammer by the tablet. The hammer handles are worn out, like they've been used for years. Artistic art is unclaimed. He looked at the first half of the show, said it was familiar and then asked where it was and he shook his head.

The festivalist finally got only one blank page. The paper is big, it is ink-smuggling, it is clear, and it is indeed a dry stone. No decree, no decree, no decree. He was angry, cut off the bookstores and locked up the creditors for a few days. But the state city soon had another fight to fight, and it was left behind.

The last one was taken from me.

Arnin took his own account. She waited three days at the door of the shop and was taken in by a paper-seller widow on the fourth day. Many years later, she learned to patch paper. She always makes up for the broken vouchers, family names, graves. She's just a freak. She never takes a name.

People asked why, she said names could not be filled with names.

Later, the posterior etching began to take place on the dry tablet. It started in one or two places and then more. The traveller leaves a poem, the official leaves a name, and the alien messenger leaves a text that no one can read. Some people think they've broken the monuments, others think they're historical. In any case, they are on the tablets, like a layer and a layer of noise.

The noises are sometimes safer than silence.

The real danger of words is not covered, but read in their entirety. The official monument can be put back to the depths by piecemeal, groaning, blackmailing, and controversial interpretations. The more the world will be, the more the stone will be. And they say after it, and speak of the works, and speak of the intention without words. Each is close to the truth and is incomplete. That's right.

The hill is still there.

Those who stand before the tablets today will see it engraved, and will hear it be called a tablet without words. Most people feel in conflict, take pictures, smile, turn around and see the next stone. A few would stop for a while, staring at the later words and imagine what a big one would have been in the middle.

Imagine.

Don't read it.

There is a broken old crack beneath the tablet. The patches and the stone are almost mixed, and the road is thought to be a strange curve only if it looks close after the rain. It's not like a normal crack, it's more like an old word for "water." The writing is so bad, it's like a child with a little bit of a back-up and a little bit of a hard work.

Nobody knows who it is.

It's good too.

The most stable place is when there is no place for a name.