Fragment of a letter, date uncertain The prince aimed his bow high, and then exhaled letting the arrow fly straight at the moon. Did he fail? Did he succeed? No one can say. But we know this: the moon is dead. The colors we see are not the response of creative gaiety, but are deceits, tricks played by sunlight and atmospheric conditions, angles of geometry and refraction. What did the prince believe? The tale, in whatever form it takes, refuses to tell us. It always ends with his white arrow disappearing into the darkness. Nine suns he slew, but as to the heart of his woman racing away, escaping into eternity, the legends are mute. But Yi is long dead, and the moon is still beautiful, neh? What other answer do you need, my love?