It is said that the last thing one does before death is to walk out of a vast maze, and it doesn’t matter how long you walk, death has patience. I stepped into this maze when I was very young, and I saw countless people walking with me, laughing and joking like college youths, without a trace of panic or fear. I was told that the exits appeared randomly, but why were they not afraid. I couldn’t think of these things, and my companions around me were not heard from one by one. Some only accompanied me for a few folds, some for a little longer, but in the end, they all disappeared, not knowing whether they went elsewhere or got out of the maze. I began to get used to this life in the shadows, feeling too stupid to live too long. One day a small golem told me that the maze turned out to have a map, and I saw a teenage girl dressed for Halloween walking across the street. And I gave her candy, and she gave me a package, and I was so happy that I saw the dagger before I could get out of the map. I felt a sense of irony that perhaps I was an embarrassing joke, that I didn’t have that strong a desire to live, that I was just someone who couldn’t find an exit, someone who couldn’t die as usually as anyone else.
So I just sat here and wrote a book with a sad mind called “Heel of Faith,” which is all about the parable of this maze. The moment I finished it, the fables with their teeth and claws flew out of the pages that imprisoned them like bats. They were like broken kites, like Donald Trump balloons that had been punctured, scattered in the overcast sky. I thought this excellent black powder firework was the best gift I could give the world before I died, and I was so excited I couldn’t sleep at night, not knowing what it meant, when the cops started threatening to have me arrested. They were hysterical, trying to catch every fable I had let go of. The fables then burrowed into countless printers and began to reproduce themselves so that numerous copies of the fables were floating in the sky, indistinguishable from the real ones. It was a mockery of police work, but then I saw the fables happening: children running home in a panic to tell their parents about the wolf, optimistic investors worrying about the sky falling, and western business people selling both sharp spears strong shields. But I did nothing wrong, I just wrote stories that are not in this world, and I am convinced that it is sad that I am wanted. If this is the end of me, I just want to have a little more sympathy before I die for the shapeless police force who can’t finish catching the fables in the sky. They can only arrest me, perhaps the world’s most failed profession. They tied me up and tortured me, and maybe they shouldn’t have existed, I thought.