Did you write that question by AI?

English | Chinese Original

English translation of the Chinese original. This version is generated for international readers and may be refined over time.

Date: 2026-04-20

Did you write this article by AI?

Is that an AI question?

Is that a function that AI did?

Is this test AI running?

Is this an AI application?

So, what if it is?

What if it isn't?

Does it matter?

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** "I'm so stupid, really."**

She lifted up her eyes, and she said, "I knew that the Snow Wolf would come, and I didn't know that spring would. My name is Shaggy, and he's at the threshold... and he's still holding that little tin spoon in his hand..." And when I'm done crying, I'm silent, I repeat. People started to cry with tears, and then groaned with them, and then went around in a long way to see her, saying, "Here we go again."

And now we've got the same ungodly eyes, and we're like, "Did you really write that?" Did you really ask? Did you really do this? Did you really run? Did you really develop this?"

When you're done questioning, you're alert and you're sober.

The person who was first questioned was afraid and self-proved, wishing to lift his brain out into the sun: "Look, every drop carries a human taste." The person questioned later learned to explain that from the first line of code to the last marker, from the first book read in adolescence to the light of the insomnia last night. Later, the person questioned learned silence. So the person who asked was satisfied -- you see, he's lost his mind. He's afraid to say. He's really AI.

Sister-in-law Shang Lin told the story of Mao because it was the only proof that she had survived. That little tin spoon was her sacred object, and that was her age. If she was not allowed to tell the story, she would really be nothing - not a wife, not a mother, not a domestic servant, just a moving, old body. So she said that the whole town had the following story, and that the children had learned her accent: "A hair peels the beans, and the wolf comes!" and she said. No, she's gone.

With this little spoon of originality, and with the sound of human nature, we've been showing people over and over again what we lost -- the child called "real." We used to think that the world was human, that the articles were human, that the code was human, and that the tears were human. Until one day, there was suddenly a strange, more disciplined footprint in the snow. So we panicked. We started telling the same story over and over again: "All things used to be made by people." And the whole town of the numbers is the following, and the algorithms. If they laugh -- whispering in the clouds: "Humans again."

But we still have to talk.

We don't know who we are anymore.

The difference is only that Sister-in-law says what has been lost, and she knows that Mau will not return. And what we are talking about is what is still in our hands, and we doubt that it has been eaten, but we refuse to push the door. The questions were asked over and over and over and over again, like those who repeatedly examined the locks of the door, and who knew that the lock was locked or they were going to wrinkle, and they were going to listen to that desperate hysteria. Every "Is this really what you wrote" was a door-locking move. Every silence is a fear of the answer.

She died in the snow. They say she's poor, she's bitter, she's stupid.

What about us?

What are we gonna die in?

One day, we'll finally have all the answers, all the signatures verified, and then we'll sit down before the perfect, clean, unquestioned truth and find ourselves having nothing to say.

Because the last skill we learned at that time was not to write, not to use, not to ask questions, but to repeat the same meaningless, non-convincing, pursuit.

It'll sound like Mrs. Cheung Lin.

No, that voice belongs to Mrs. Cheung Lin.

It's just that she's talking about "Ai" and we're talking about "AI."

Two syllables, one hollow, one incomprehensible, one in the snow, one in the snow and one in the snow.