Zero Count

Everything comes back to where all should restart. How can one have no solicitude for the future, or better, for time itself?

Though time should be passivity, or patience, in waiting for that which one would never lay fast hold of, this understanding cannot dispel the solicitude at present, a present in wilderness with nothing to look ahead of or back at, any more than accrue courage to confront the unknown that is one's equally uncertain fate.

Crying, want to be. Crying. Crying for that nothing in front of which one can shiver only. Tears as a token foreboding a year of throat-slitting test. A token betokens of a year of darkness.

If only tears can be shed.

Blood

血»
祭所薦牲血也 从皿 一象血形 此从O者 血在皿中 側視之則一 俯視之則成O矣

Blood there is. In a pate. The crying mouth sings either of the pain below or a prayer to the high above.

A drop of blood in the thralldom to the plate.

Swine Head

彐‧ㄐㄧˋ»
豕頭曰彐 字本作彑 略象豕頭上銳而面部碩大之形 本義作豕頭解 即豬頭 彑 豕之頭也 象其銳而上見之形（通訓定聲‧彑）

Now it's a head. A head of swine that pokes its nose towards the sky. The meaty and puffy face seems being put on a plate whose rim line, in fact, stands for the neck below which other bodily parts remain invisible (or cut off?). A fat swine head put on a plate to serve other words by making them, partially, of itself. What other words? Words that should smell good and look piggy. Of course, all this is only guessing at and fantasizing about a picture of the posture of a swine head.