This place is full of noise and human warmth, and yet a quiet seeps through it, impossible to name. I notice that the lights surrounding everything only reach the ground floor; above them is a frightening darkness and emptiness. The windows sink inward one after another, like Angkor Wat stripped of its statues, left with nothing but wind-worn, effaced marks. It is hard to imagine what they once held, tragedy or comedy, but whenever I look at these gray-brown ruins of an era, I cannot help feeling a sorrow that seems to come from some other time and place, like hearing an elegy in a hallucination. The ground-floor lights still burn, casting the shadows of passersby. I know my place is unlikely to be here, on this land where reality feels thin. The car passes through Qiyun Road. I say nothing. But when I return to that familiar warm nest, and once again go searching the vast internet for some small pleasure, I always feel a barely perceptible hand, made of nothing, belonging to no one, ice-cold, closing around my fragile soul.