ACOUSTIC METADATA

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• TIMESTAMP: Winter, 1987

• LOCATION: No. 10 Qianmen East Street (The "Grey Box")

• ACOUSTIC TARGET: Old Song’s baton (Benchmark of power), Low-frequency square wave (Collective choir)

• BIOSENSOR: Cardiac acceleration / Abdominal breathing control / Anus venting

 

 

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​​That afternoon, I arrived at No. 10 Qianmen East Street. That twelve-story "Grey Box" loomed over me. Inside, the air was thick with the fake elegance of leather shoes clicking on terrazzo. Top floor, Old Song’s office. "Why not be my secretary?" he asked. His expression was relaxed, without any falsetto.

 

"Old Song, I can sing, but I’m no good at being an official." I didn't dare say that an official's job is posturing and concealing truth.

 

The seats in the Grand Auditorium were pressed down by over six hundred posteriors. Behind me, over two hundred pairs of lips became mechanized instruments. 

 

A field of snow-white shirts formed a "Snowy Plain" of bureaucratic ambition. Directly behind me stood the man who would later be the Director of the General Office. He sang out of tune.

 

The prelude began. Old Song’s baton pointed at me—the benchmark of power. A current of air rose from my abdomen. "Snow-capped mountains, vast wilderness—“

 

I guided the lyrics, covering the entire building. The "Ah-ah-ah" behind me was as orderly as machine output—a single, submissive, low-frequency square wave. 

 

I unilaterally broke the script. 

I let that Khoomei tremor explode layer by layer. 

 

The world became a ruthless vacuum. 

 

At almost the same second, my anus was venting gas.