Tian lay on his back across a thin rug draped over rocky ground. There he practiced his true art, the one no one ever saw or cared about.
Something seemed to happen all on its own when he was able not to force his spine, shoulders, neck, or anything. It was something soft and deep, immensely pleasurable and satisfying.
Tian found in his true art a path to transcend memory, even his terrible birth.
He reminded himself to always be aware of any differences between what was said, what was shown, how those things were made known, and what had always been real or really important all along.
I don't know anything 