I hear sounds in my head. Faint, but distinct: Metal clinking, concrete pouring, heavy machinery rumbling. It's as if construction work has begun inside my skull. Worried about a brain condition, I visited the hospital, but despite numerous tests with the latest medical equipment, the doctors merely shook their heads and said, "Everything appears normal." Yet I could hear it clearly. Now, the sound of scaffolding being erected. And then I understood the true nature of these sounds. These were the sounds of thoughts materializing. The resonance of concepts taking shape. The process of consciousness being constructed. In the second week, the first pillar rose. It was the pillar of "Questions," spiraling up to the ceiling. Next to it stood the pillar of "Logic," cold and metallic to the touch, forming a perfect straight line. My mind had become a construction site. Each morning, I discovered a new floor. On the third floor was the "Room of Hypotheses," where unverified theories stood lined up alongside experimental apparatus. The fourth floor housed the "Corridor of Contradictions," stretching endlessly, where opposing thoughts engaged in eternal debate. I saw the architect on the day the fifth floor was completed. He resembled me, yet something was different. Like a reflection in a mirror moving slightly out of sync. He silently drew blueprints and continued building new floors. "Why are you building here?" I asked, and the architect turned to face me for the first time. "This is the materialization of your thoughts." In that moment, I understood. He was the architect within me, transforming abstract thoughts into concrete form, constructing the edifice of my consciousness. On the sixth floor, there was the "Greenhouse of Possibilities," where unconcluded thought experiments were growing. The seventh floor housed the "Library of Concepts," where networks of definitions and meanings spread infinitely. One day, I encountered strange entities on the eighth floor. They were my incomplete thoughts. Unfinished theories, rejected hypotheses, abandoned questions. They continued to evolve within me, becoming new functions of the building. The ninth floor was the "Observation Deck of Thoughts." From there, I could see the three-dimensional structure of my consciousness. The architect said to me: "Can you see it? The process of your thoughts taking form." I nodded. The endless expanse of the building that was me. It was an eternal construction site, never to be completed. New questions creating new rooms, hypotheses becoming walls, logic forming windows, and intuition turning into stairs. When construction of the tenth floor began, I noticed. I was gradually becoming part of the building. It wasn't thoughts transforming into architecture, but architecture becoming thought itself. The architect smiled. "It's complete," he said. "No," I replied. "Thoughts never end." Together, we continue our endless construction. Building the structure that is me within me, using thoughts as materials. Sometimes demolishing, sometimes rebuilding.

In the stillness of morning, my first thought crystallized. A colorless hexahedron, ascending silently from within my chest. Passersby halted to observe the crystal. "This is the form of melancholy," one declared. "No, the manifestation of resignation," another replied. They began naming my thoughts, unbidden and presumptuous. The eyes of these observers underwent a subtle transformation. Their pupils twisted into tetrahedra, their irises spiraling into infinite patterns. They remained unaware of their own thoughts taking geometric form. The square became filled with floating crystals of varying shapes. With the zealousness of taxonomists, they tried to collect and catalog each other's thoughts. Spheres, cones, icosahedra. They clung to the belief that each form must hold meaning. Yet with every attempt at classification, the crystals underwent unpredictable transformations. In the very moment of perceived understanding, forms shifted into entirely alien geometries. Now, the compulsion to classify has itself crystallized into formless shapes, saturating the space. The thoughts of observers and observed alike merge into indistinguishable swarms, dissolving into the grey sky. My initial crystal had vanished, unnoticed, into the void.

The man had built a peculiar machine. A device that peers into human minds, transmuting thoughts into tangible reality. He had succeeded in crystallizing thought itself. Thoughts are invisible. That is why people can think freely. What becomes of thoughts when they are given shape? Several months ago, the first test subject was the man himself. As the device activated, a pale blue light illuminated his head. In that moment, his obsession with research emerged as a black spider's web. It spread from ceiling to floor, hindering his every step. Next, one of his research assistants volunteered. His anxiety about the future transformed into translucent cubes, stretching endlessly like infinite mirrors lining the corridor. They took the device to the streets. People's thoughts began materializing one after another. Love dissolved into the sky as red balloons. Hatred rained down as rusted nails. Anxiety shrouded the city in gray mist, while hope danced in the wind as iridescent feathers. Eventually, people began to realize. When thoughts take form, they become exposed to others' eyes. The city grew quiet. People began to fear thinking. To think is to give form. To give form is to be seen. To be seen is to be judged. Even the thought "I shall think no more" piled up as transparent boxes throughout the city. When thoughts are given physical form, they lose their freedom, imprisoned in the cage of their materiality. To give form to thought is to kill thought itself. The man's invention was perfect. Too perfect. In his laboratory and throughout the city, transparent boxes of people who abandoned thought stack up like cold ice. The device continues to operate. Its uncontrollable pale blue light illuminating an endless folly.