The Tariff Exemption Labyrinth

No one knew exactly how many floors the "Interdepartmental Joint Review Office for Tariff Exemption Lists" occupied, or indeed, if the building truly possessed a structure like "floors" comprehensible to mortals. It was merely rumored to be like a self-replicating grey dream, entrenched in some forgotten corner of the city. I, Shen Mo, am a low-level archivist here, number 718. My job, simply put, is to verify and file the lists of goods granted "exemption" status. However, the word "simple" here was like a faded lie, an ancient joke long lost to time.

On my first day, my superior, a man with a blurred face seemingly composed of countless overlapping shadows, handed me a volume as thick as a city brick, titled "Compilation of Exemption Regulations, First Edition (Under Revision)." His voice was like frosted glass grinding: "The rules are the labyrinth itself, kid. Don't try to find an exit; try to understand the texture of the walls." Then he disappeared, or rather, merged into the eternal dimness at the end of the corridor, a dimness built from accumulated paper.

Initially, I thought it was just a tedious but logical job. Goods, codes, origins, reasons for exemption... the forms were clear, the ink neat. But soon, I discovered the strangeness within. Strange entries began to appear on the lists: "The seventh apple from a non-existent orchard near 116°E longitude, 40°N latitude," "Half a stanza of poetry lost at the corner of Third Street last night," "Shadow shed by a person in the mirror (limited edition)." Next to these entries were stamped, conspicuously, the bright red "Exempt" seals, jointly certified by at least twelve departments.

I tried asking my colleagues, but they either offered me empty smiles, their eyes like dusty glass beads, or hurried away with their heads down, as if my questions were a forbidden incantation. In this building, it seemed everyone was immersed in their own cycle, oblivious to the surrounding absurdity, or perhaps, having long internalized it as part of the everyday.

I became engrossed in studying the "Compilation of Regulations." They piled up like mountains, numerous in version, frequently revised, with footnotes longer than the main text, and often contradicting each other. Some regulations claimed exemptions were based on "national strategic needs," others cited "cosmic harmonic balance," and an ancient addendum even hinted that exemption rights were determined by some random, dice-throwing-like mechanism—only the die had infinite faces, each inscribed with a different paradox.

I discovered a pattern, or rather, a pattern of constant self-negation. Whenever a seemingly reasonable justification for exemption (like "promoting key technology exchange") became widely applied, it would soon be replaced by a new, more obscure reason (like "compensating for the inevitable entropy increase in the flow of time"). The goods on the list also grew increasingly detached from reality. I even saw "Oblivion itself" listed as an exempt item, annotated with: "Due to its scarcity and contribution to maintaining the status quo."

The building itself was proof. The corridors seemed to secretly change their layout at night. A passage I walked down only yesterday had become a solid wall today, on the wall hung a new portrait, depicting none other than myself, but aged, eyes weary, holding a copy of "Compilation of Exemption Regulations, Final Edition (Draft)" I had never seen. The archive room was even more so; the files seemed alive, arranging themselves, multiplying, and vanishing. In a dusty corner, I once found a file, numbered precisely 718, chronicling the story of an archivist named Shen Mo who tried to understand the exemption lists and eventually went mad or disappeared. The date, however, was some day in the future.

A Kafkaesque anxiety permeated the air here, omnipresent yet intangible. I felt I wasn't processing economic documents, but deciphering a vast, chaotic celestial scripture with neither author nor reader. This job, perhaps, wasn't about "tariffs" at all, but about some deeper, more metaphysical "exemption"—exemption from meaning, exemption from logic, exemption from reality itself?

I began to doubt whether the goods imported from China or elsewhere actually existed. Perhaps "China" itself was just a noun within this colossal set of regulations, a symbol used to construct the complex labyrinth of exemptions? Could the "trade," "tariffs," and "exemptions" spoken of so certainly in the television news be merely shadow plays projected onto the outside world by this building?

One day, in the crevice of an almost moth-eaten "Addendum to Regulations," I found a handwritten note tucked within, the script hurried, like the last words of a dying man: "What's exempted isn't the goods, but the rules themselves. We are exempted from the obligation to adhere to logic." The signature was blurred, like a broken seal.

At that moment, I felt a wave of dizziness. I looked around; the towering file racks were like the ribs of a monster, imprisoning me. From afar came the monotonous drone of a printer, like the pulse of time, slow and relentless. I looked down at the latest exemption list in my hand. The first item read: "Archivist No. 718's next question." Beside it was the familiar, bright red seal, co-signed by twelve departments.

Was I exempted too? Exempted from seeking answers? Exempted from escaping this labyrinth? I felt a strange calm, like a prisoner grown accustomed to his chains. I picked up my pen and began verifying the list, as if the previous confusion and fear had never existed. Perhaps understanding the texture of the walls didn't require finding an exit. Perhaps becoming part of the wall was the only way to understand.

I continued my work, meticulously. The light in the corridor seemed to dim further, the air filled with the ancient scent of paper and dust. At some imperceptible moment, I looked up and saw, in the shadows of the opposite file rack, another me, face blurred, leafing through a thick "Compilation of Exemption Regulations." He looked up and offered me an empty smile.

The clamor of the outside world, the flames of trade wars, national interests... all seemed so distant, like echoes from another universe. Here, there were only lists, regulations, and the endless labyrinth of exemptions. And I, Shen Mo, number 718, was perhaps just another fading line in the texture of this labyrinth's walls.