I was once the Book of All Spirits of Kunlun Mountain, and I knew every true name and essence in the world.
Later, people began to believe only in written words. Confucius made rubbings of my scales to create the Illustrated Guide to the White Marsh, while monks copied demon-subduing scriptures with my blood.
Then an archaeological team dug up my horn in a Tang Dynasty tomb and excitedly declared they had discovered a “model of an auspicious beast from antiquity.”
Meanwhile, I was crouching outside the museum glass, licking an ice cream and watching humans label “me.”
Suddenly, a little girl pointed at the clear display case. “Mommy, it’s crying.”
Only children can still see the truth.
