I am writing a mythological story. It is based on truths but sounds really strange. It is sacred but also absurd. It is both rosy and disillusioned. It is solemn and yet lacks the real content. I repeat such labor until I forget who I am. I am stupid and laughable, but eventually the fatigue of writing transforms itself into a kind of black humor in my story. I want to cry, and cry a lot. Such has become a lasting trait of mine. It doesn’t matter whether this story has a happy or sad ending. The thing is, when we read this story, we don’t feel anything. The passing of time has made every part of this story emotionless relics of the past. It seems that only those who have lived through the old days know how shocking the story is and scream loudly as they read on. Otherwise, most of us fail to relate to the story and think we can do nothing about it. When American beef with bones were allowed to be imported in 2009, it sparked a backlash in public opinion. After a while, however, the people in Taiwan seem to become indifferent towards this issue. Many continue poisoning themselves with problematic meat, slowly and quietly.