回声先抵达，再是我的声音——它早已被审批、复制、归档。
我站在没有门的厅里，墙在聆听我是否合格。光从天花板滴下来，不照亮任何问题，只画出我应当成为的轮廓。窗呢？早被抹除，透视是一种非法的欲望。
我要上楼，电梯提示：请调整情绪至系统标准。于是我学会把悲伤藏进嘴角，把愤怒训练成微笑。门开，一片膝盖的海，骨头整齐地朝向核心光柱。有人试图站起，被警报当作异物剔除。我低头，继续前行，走进一座没有声音的城市——语言被墙吸收，连沉默也回不到自己。
最后我才知道，我并不是在行走，而是在被顺从设计的路线中自动播放。这座建筑，从来不是为了容纳人，而是为了训练人忘记他们原本如何站立、如何说话。
The echo arrives before my voice—it has already been approved, duplicated, and archived.
I stand in a hall without doors; the walls are listening, gauging my eligibility. Light drips from the ceiling, illuminating no questions—only outlining the shape I am expected to become. Windows? Erased long ago. Perspective is an illegal desire.
I want to go upstairs. The elevator prompts: Please adjust your emotions to match system standards. So I learn to tuck sadness into the corner of my mouth, to train anger into a smile. The door opens: a sea of knees, bones aligned precisely toward a central column of light. Someone tries to rise—an alarm sounds. The system expels them as a foreign object. I lower my head and move forward, entering a city without sound—where language is absorbed by the walls, and even silence cannot return to itself.
Only then do I realize: I am not walking, I am being auto-played along a path designed by obedience. This building was never meant to contain people—it was meant to train them to forget how they once stood, how they once spoke.