The beloved sweet-singing nightingale is just a commodity with a clearly marked price.
Roaring is regarded as singing, and scars are regarded as art.
When I risk everything to expose all the filth in public, what awaits me is not justice, but the charge of madness and eternal imprisonment.
When the bird stops singing, the world has long forgotten how hurt it has been.
Intention: Capital can plunder the pain of victims and package humiliation into human characters; when resistance is also consumed, speaking out becomes a luxury.