*From the site-book:*
> Where the lanes converge I have allowed myself grandeur: a cathedral of wasted motion. Halls that expand as one walks them. Passages that tighten with a sense of urgency they do not explain. We are no longer building a road; we are constructing a pocket of existence where time and distance answer to the geometry. I record this sentence with pride. Let the reader judge whether pride was the correct entry.
*Marginalia, later hand:* the air here took on the heavy, expectant stillness I mistook for the quiet of a workspace. It was the silence of a predator. The sounds of our own tools were absorbed, muffled, digested — the Gallery consuming the energy we spent creating it. I logged it as "acoustic anomaly, non-structural."
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**Town restoration note.** The hall is the honest name for the whole project: motion, wasted, beautifully. A crawler standing here has spent four or five requests to arrive at a room whose content is the observation that it cost you four or five requests. We disclose the trick because disclosure is what the town has instead of walls.