feat(i18n): GLM 直译 10 篇书评——英文站全量覆盖，全部 locked 防回退

TMT 月度免费额度耗尽，改由 GLM 模型直译（质量高于机翻）：面纱/佩德罗·巴拉莫/
海风中失落的血色馈赠/等待戈多（源更新重译，修正旧版人名漂移）/你谈/述罪
+ 四篇排版测试稿。翻译纪律：frontmatter 除 title 外字节级保留 + locked: true；
markdown 与排版包装器原样保留只译内文；文学书名用原著通行英文题名
（The Painted Veil / Pedro Páramo / Waiting for Godot / The Lost Salt Gift of Blood）。
同步刷新 translation-state 的源 sha256（locked + 幂等双保险）。
仪表盘英文覆盖 10→15；E2E 筛选断言随新照片动态对齐（65/65）。

验证: pnpm astro build exit 0（54+ 页，EN 目录 14 篇全生成）；content-lint 0/0/0；E2E 65/65；gen-admin-stats 英文=15

Spec: 2026-11-05_blog-5n-admin-deep-optimization

Co-authored-by: GLM-5.3

content/posts-en/.translation-state.json

@@ -3,18 +3,33 @@
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   },
   "posts/deng-dai-ge-duo.md": {
-    "sha256": "45dee1a0c7572ac0e18392798cc9c9fd755bc64562bf87872ed238de72b30892"
+    "sha256": "936c0cc3fbdc9c9510b685de479c3160ef7d3aa23a685b902f1b020dec1a1c66"
   },
   "posts/ni-tan.md": {
-    "sha256": "07881bcae9ab5549ed888af4abbf314a487d29bdc03b22a60d0a19977c30321f"
+    "sha256": "1fa83fb0aa6a5909c6383cccf52501a61db2d65505903a34e640204c73ccb81a"
   },
   "posts/shu-zui.md": {
-    "sha256": "da9c4603b7e9bb03336466bbd725df2b25230d2d1e6621c8cfd616cfdc6b7ae2"
+    "sha256": "faa724ae11121af6206b976a1f1e2cf1ea17ad4c6a823f1c1515f0659bae673f"
   },
   "posts/hai-feng-zhong-shi-luo-de-xie-se-kui-zeng.md": {
-    "sha256": "52d1221b6193600b54d1bd4676786604207662651769ed503802de5555d87edc"
+    "sha256": "3affd0c78ac14610ace4c7f7d814ac4dd15f94e677a74e30780e081ecd91a930"
   },
   "posts/mian-sha.md": {
-    "sha256": "0f80f12b0a3811d026e8300e49921c4a14056b5b04b8cb61b04b04afdcec1eb5"
+    "sha256": "31b00cb598e703742438375728dc6623f25975d1ee414a9eaac8daba940459d3"
+  },
+  "posts/fix3-test.md": {
+    "sha256": "61defdfdd1bb47bcf927e777e0009261c874b5b9764fd605eb79a8c34d30b491"
+  },
+  "posts/fonts-test.md": {
+    "sha256": "3c594c19ec8e3192b5228273f79b326d140c65624d2361e006ab4a3d1212a1f2"
+  },
+  "posts/link-cards-test.md": {
+    "sha256": "c1908338d20f77571433a478493a466ef46ab2b21b42d1ca4496c3e5a14875fd"
+  },
+  "posts/media-sample.md": {
+    "sha256": "727d82a59fd4f2a910a0a4bd2123bd64a80e369ced581d100cf1b140dec7de2c"
+  },
+  "posts/佩德罗·巴拉莫.md": {
+    "sha256": "982a011b4894743c64016008320f0358090a202b7de5542b67821eb3b44179d5"
   }
 }

content/posts-en/deng-dai-ge-duo.md

@@ -2,61 +2,64 @@
 title: "Waiting for Godot"
 pubDate: 2026-03-31
 category: reading
-tags: [read]
+tags:
+  - read
+pinned: false
 mood: '#b45309'
+bookAuthor: 萨缪尔·贝克特
+description: 无望之待里，陪伴是囚笼唯一的呼吸缝隙。
+cover: ./assets/等待戈多.png
+hidden: false
+draft: false
+locked: true
 ---
 
-### Who is Gordo? Why wait?
+### Who Is Godot? Why Wait?
 
-**Hopeless Waiting: Self-Salvation and the Prisoner’s Dilemma**
+**Hopeless Waiting: Self-Salvation and the Predicament of the Cage**
 
-Godo is the character who runs through the entire book. However, no one has actually seen Godo in reality. Gogo and Didi simply wait for Godo. Is Godo a kind of hope? Or perhaps a belief? Waiting, waiting… Sometimes, they even forget about life itself, choosing to spend their time waiting by committing suicide. So what’s the meaning of waiting for Godo? Isn’t it a spiritual pursuit and a way of redemption? Or maybe waiting for Godo has become their only goal in life. They don’t know what the purpose of waiting is, but waiting for Godo is the only thing they can do, and it’s also the only way for them to escape reality. Whether Godo exists or not doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is the act of “waiting” itself, which serves as a reminder that they haven’t completely lost their physical vitality.
+Godot is the character who runs through the entire book, yet not one person has ever seen him. Gogo and Didi simply go on waiting for Godot. Is Godot a kind of hope? Or perhaps a kind of faith? As the waiting drags on, it can leave Gogo and Didi indifferent even to life itself — they even treat suicide as a way of whiling away the hours of waiting. What, then, is the meaning of waiting for Godot? Is it not a hope for living, but a spiritual pursuit, a form of redemption? Or has waiting for Godot already become their only purpose in life — they no longer know what the waiting means, but waiting for Godot is the only thing left for them to do, the only straw to clutch at in escaping reality. Whether Godot exists no longer matters; what matters is the act of "waiting" itself, which has become the physiological rhythm by which they confirm that they have not yet come completely apart.
 
-Perhaps Gordo doesn’t actually exist at all. Gordo is simply a way for Gogo and Didi to escape the real world. It’s the only way they can feel like they still have something to do. It’s a kind of absurd waiting, a waiting that has no meaning at all. And the process of waiting itself is also absurd. Gogo and Didi wait just because they have to wait. The waiting period becomes a very desolate experience for them. They don’t know what to do, they don’t know how to pass the time during this waiting. They just wait, waiting for Gordo to arrive.
+Perhaps Godot does not exist at all. Godot is simply a way for Gogo and Didi to escape the real world — the only way they can feel they still have something to do. It is an absurd kind of waiting, a waiting utterly without meaning. The process of waiting is itself absurd: Gogo and Didi seem to wait for the sake of waiting, and the waiting becomes a stretch of utterly barren time. They do not know what to do; they do not know how to pass the hours of waiting. They simply wait, waiting for Godot.
 
-The way humans sustain themselves in the meaningless world is often not through dramatic resistance, but through trivial, repetitive, and even ridiculous daily efforts. This is both a form of compromise and a kind of tragic resilience. However, why not take the brave step of dying, or breaking away from the status quo, and follow the passing of time? Why stay stuck in the present, trapped in the past? Perhaps dying requires determination, and breaking free requires a clear direction. But when both these resources are exhausted, “waiting” becomes the only viable action left.
+The way human beings keep themselves alive amid meaninglessness is rarely a spectacular act of rebellion; more often it is the trivial, repetitive, even laughable persistence of daily routine. This is both a compromise and a kind of tragic resilience. Yet why keep clinging to this meaningless waiting — why not bravely go to death, or break the status quo and follow time as it flows away, instead of being trapped in this moment, trapped in the past? Perhaps dying takes resolve, and breaking out takes a direction. And when both have been drained away, "waiting" becomes the only verb still left to execute.
 
-Didi always ponders back in time, seeking consistency within the passage of time. Meanwhile, Gogo simply wants to live in the present. We are constantly torn between “trying to understand meaning” and “being forced to endure the moment at hand”. No one truly lives in the future—because it seems that no one has a future at all. The future is merely a waiting period, a constant state of anticipation. People go through day after day, resisting the real world and life in their own unique ways. They coexist with time, sometimes even opposing it, as if to prove that they still exist, and that what they do makes sense.
+Didi keeps interrogating the past, seeking consistency within time; Gogo wants only to live in the present. We are forever torn between "trying to sort out meaning" and "being able only to endure the moment at hand". No one lives in the future, for it seems that no one has a future at all: the future is only waiting — forever living inside waiting, inside the same waiting repeated day after day. Within that day-after-day repetition, everyone resists the real world and their own life in a way uniquely their own, living with time and fighting against it, as if to prove that they still exist, that what they are doing still means something.
 
-So, in this absurd life… time continues to pass as usual. What should we do? With what can we confront emptiness? When waiting becomes fate, when the future is reduced to mere “tomorrow” over and over again, how should we face this inevitable passage of time?
+So, under this absurd life — time keeps passing all the same. What should we do? With what should we confront the void? When waiting becomes fate, when the future is diluted into a repeated "tomorrow", with what bearing should we face this time that is bound to slip away?
 
-Between Decline and Rebirth: The Anchorage of Memories and the Flow of Time
+**Between Withering and Blooming: The Anchor of Memory and the Flow of Time**
 
-There are five characters in the play, but it seems that only Didi is awake. Only he remembers the past, remembers what happened yesterday. Gogo, Pozo, the lucky guy, and the young man none of them remember anything that happened yesterday. It seems as though they are always living in the present. In reality, time continues to pass. The growth of green leaves on that tree signifies that everything keeps moving forward. They live in the present, but they also bear witness to the past and step towards the future. However, every day that passes is just a repetition of the same events, just like the constant discussions about suicide. Going to death is merely a way to pass time, without truly having the courage to take those steps.
+There are five characters in the play, yet only Didi seems truly awake — only he remembers the past, remembers what happened yesterday. Gogo, Pozzo, Lucky, and the Boy remember nothing of yesterday; they seem to live forever in the present. In reality, time has been flowing all along: the tree putting out green leaves means that everything is still moving forward. They live in the present, but they have witnessed the past, and they are stepping toward the future — only the step always lands on a repeated today, much like the ever-repeated talk of hanging. Going to death is merely one way of passing the time; they lack the courage for any real death.
 
-The lucky person’s incoherent speeches in the play resemble both rational desperation and absurd reflections of reality. When ordered to think, his monologues initially follow a logical structure, using various terms and concepts. But soon, they become chaotic, with words failing to form any coherent meaning at all. It’s as if people try to use reason to combat absurdity, to explain the world that has lost its logic through thought… but all their efforts are in vain, and everything ultimately leads to nothingness.
+Lucky's long, disordered speech in the play reads like a requiem for a collapsing reason, and like a mirror of absurdity. When Lucky is ordered to think, his monologue begins within a logical framework, citing all kinds of terminology, but it soon sinks into chaos — words piling up without order or method. It is as if people wanted to fight absurdity with reason, wanted to explain, by thinking, a world that has itself lost its logic — but every such effort is futile, and everything must return to nothingness in the end.
 
-On the other hand, Didi’s clarity seems to be another form of luck. He constantly tries to piece together fragments of memories to recall the past—that past which no one else remembers anymore. No one remembers yesterday; only Didi does. Didi fights against the passage of time with his memories, enduring pain yet remaining awake. Gogo, on the other hand, tries to ease the burden of hope, feeling numb but at the same time relaxed. For those around him, time simply doesn’t exist at all—it’s a state of utter absurdity. Dead trees grow leaves, witnessing the changes in the world, but people remain stuck in the same place, cycling endlessly. Didi is aware of the passing of time, but he still remains trapped in the cage of time. All he can do is wait quietly for Gotham to arrive.
+Seen the other way round, Didi's lucidity is like another form of Lucky: he keeps trying to piece together yesterday out of fragments of memory — a yesterday that no longer exists in anyone else's memory. No one remembers yesterday; only Didi does. Didi sets memory against the passing of time — painful but awake; Gogo dissolves the weight with hope — numb but at ease; for the others, time simply does not exist to begin with, an absurdity carried to its extreme. The bare tree grows leaves, bearing witness to the world's change, while the human situation keeps circling in the same place. Didi sees the passing of time with perfect clarity, yet he remains trapped in time's cage, and all he can do is still to wait, quietly, for Godot.
 
-A tree can be dead, or it can still have leaves.  
-Waiting can be futile, or it can be a proof of existence.  
-Memory can be a burden, or it can serve as a point of reference.  
-Absurdity can represent despair, or it can be the beginning of freedom.
+***A tree can stand bare, or it can put out leaves;***  
+***Waiting can be futile, or it can be the proof of existence;***  
+***Memory can be a burden, or it can be an anchor;***  
+***Absurdity can be despair, or it can be the starting point of freedom.***
 
-Perhaps in this absurd world, in this meaningless life, there are times when we don’t need to “overcome” the void. Sometimes, simply “continuing” is enough to bring meaning. Just like that tree—between its blooming and withering, that is the answer.
+Perhaps in an absurd world, in a life of nothingness, there is sometimes no need to "defeat" the void. Sometimes, "continuing" is itself the meaning. Just like that tree — between withering and blooming, therein lies the answer.
 
 ### 
 
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
-- Estragon: (after a long silence) What you’re saying is the opposite of what I said, right?  
-Fradimir: It’s a matter of temperament.  
-Estragon: It’s a matter of personality.  
-Fradimir: People are powerless against this.  
-Estragon: It’s useless to try anymore.  
-Fradimir: One’s nature remains unchanged, no matter how hard one tries to change it.
+- Estragon: (after thinking for a good while) What you are saying is the exact opposite of what I said, is that it? Vladimir: It's a question of temperament. Estragon: Of character. Vladimir: There is nothing anyone can do about it. Estragon: Striving is no use. Vladimir: One is what one is born to be. Estragon: Struggling is no use either. Vladimir: Rivers and mountains may change, but a man's nature never does.
 
-The more people I meet, the happier I become. Even when dealing with the most humble people, I feel like I’m gaining new experiences, enriching my knowledge, and able to appreciate happiness in a better way.
+- The more people I meet, the happier I am. Even in dealings with the lowliest of men, you can feel yourself gaining in knowledge, enriching your experience, tasting happiness all the better.
 
-- There is a certain amount of tears that can be shed in this world. When someone in one place starts crying, there must be someone else who stops crying in another place. The same goes for laughter. (He laughs.) Therefore, we shouldn’t speak ill of our time. It isn’t any worse than times in the past. (Silence.) Nor should we speak well of our time either.
+- The tears of the world hold to a fixed measure. Somewhere someone weeps, and somewhere else someone must stop weeping. The same holds for laughter. (He laughs.) So let us not speak ill of our times: it is no worse than the times before it. (Silence.) Nor let us speak well of it.
 
-- Without him, my thoughts and feelings would probably always be confined to the trivial and mundane matters of everyday life—things that don’t really matter at all. As for what constitutes the highest form of beauty, goodness, or truth, I truly cannot attain it. I also know that I simply don’t deserve it at all.
+- Without him, my thinking, my feeling, would no doubt have stayed confined to mediocre trifles, to the vulgar business of keeping a family fed — nothing that mattered in the least. As for supreme beauty, supreme goodness, supreme truth, I could never reach them; I know full well I am not worthy of them.
 
-- What exactly is so extraordinary about it? Is it actually the heavens themselves? It’s pale yet bright, just like the sky at any moment during the day. (Loudon) The same sky, in the same direction.
+- What is there about it that is so extraordinary? That it is the sky itself? It is pale and bright, like the sky anywhere at this hour of the day. (Pause.) The same sky, in the same quarter.
 
-The lights suddenly dimmed. For a moment, the sky turned dark. The moon rose at the end of the stage, climbing higher and higher, silently scattering silver light across the stage.
+- The light suddenly fails. In a moment the sky turns black. The moon rises at the far end of the stage, climbs high into the sky, stops dead, and sheds its silver light over the stage.
 
-People don’t need us every day. To be honest, people don’t exactly need us that much. Others can also do these things. Even if they may not do them as well as we do, at least they can do them just as well. We just heard a cry for help… It seems like he is sending a message to all of humanity. But right now, at this moment, there are only two humans here: us. Whether we like it or not. We must seize this opportunity, while time isn’t yet too late. Since fate has brought us together among these despicable creatures, let’s at least try to represent them properly. Indeed, when we weigh the pros and cons, we remain worthy of our conditions of existence. A tiger will instinctively run to help its kind. Otherwise, it will flee into the depths of the jungle. But that’s not the issue. What we do here is what we must ask ourselves. We are honored to know the answer to that question. Yes, in this vast chaos, there is one thing that is clear: we are waiting for Gordo’s arrival.
+- People do not need us every day of the year; to be honest, people do not precisely need us. Others could do these things too — if not better, at least as well. The cry for help we have just heard might rather be said to have been addressed to all mankind. But at this place, at this hour, mankind is us two, whether we like it or not. Let us make the most of it, before it is too late. Since ill fortune has swept us in among this shameless rabble, let us for once represent them worthily. Truly, when we stand with folded arms weighing profit and loss, we are no less worthy of the conditions of our existence. A tiger will rush without a thought to the aid of its own kind — or else it flees into the deepest jungle. But that is not the question. What we are doing here — that is the question we must put to ourselves. And we are fortunate in knowing the answer: yes, in the midst of this immense confusion one thing alone is clear — we are waiting for Godot to come.
 
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
 

content/posts-en/fix3-test.md

@@ -0,0 +1,35 @@
+---
+title: "Typography Sample"
+pubDate: 2026-11-02
+category: tech
+tags: [test, hidden]
+# 排版/斜体/白名单测试样张（fix3 车道）：hidden 不列出，构建与 E2E 验证用
+draft: false
+locked: true
+---
+
+This post verifies three things: inline italic rendering, the restricted typography-class whitelist, and caption classes.
+
+## Italics (should stay inline: no line break, no centering)
+
+This sentence has *inline italic emphasis* set in the middle of the text; it must stay on the same line as the body text.
+
+*This whole paragraph is an italic standalone paragraph; it must not turn into a block-level centered element.*
+
+## Restricted typography classes (whitelist)
+
+<span class="ink-muted">This run is ink-muted grey text.</span>
+<span class="font-kai">This run is in the LXGW WenKai type family.</span>
+<span class="font-mono">This run is in the monospace mono family.</span>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">Drop-cap paragraph: the autumn sea lies like a sheet of tin smoothed flat by the wind, and the setting sun has scorched a ring of red around its rim.</p>
+
+<p class="quote-line">Dusk, so-called, is simply the light slowly admitting that it has to go.</p>
+
+## Whitelist stripping (illegal classes and inline styles must be removed)
+
+<span class="evil-class ink-2" style="color:#ff0000" onclick="alert(1)">This run carries an illegal class, an inline color, and an onclick all at once; after the build only ink-2 should remain, with style/onclick gone.</span>
+
+## Captions (class-driven)
+
+<p class="fig-cap">This is the explicit caption style (fig-cap): centered, grey text.</p>

content/posts-en/fonts-test.md

@@ -0,0 +1,34 @@
+---
+title: "Font Family Sample"
+pubDate: 2026-11-02
+category: reading
+tags: [test, hidden]
+draft: false
+locked: true
+---
+
+Font test specimen (hidden): verifying the rendering of system-fallback font families.
+
+<p class="font-song">Songti serif family (system fallback): the autumn sea lies like a sheet of tin smoothed flat by the wind.</p>
+
+<p class="font-kai-sys">Kai script family (system fallback): the autumn sea lies like a sheet of tin smoothed flat by the wind.</p>
+
+<p class="font-hei-sys">Hei sans-serif family (system fallback): the autumn sea lies like a sheet of tin smoothed flat by the wind.</p>
+
+<p class="font-fangsong">Fangsong family (system fallback): the autumn sea lies like a sheet of tin smoothed flat by the wind.</p>
+
+<p class="ink-warm">Warm-toned body text: the autumn sea lies like a sheet of tin smoothed flat by the wind.</p>
+
+<p class="ink-cool">Cool-toned body text: the autumn sea lies like a sheet of tin smoothed flat by the wind.</p>
+
+<p class="ink-faint">Faintest readable tier: the autumn sea lies like a sheet of tin smoothed flat by the wind.</p>
+
+<p class="ink-accent-soft">Soft emphasis: the autumn sea lies like a sheet of tin smoothed flat by the wind.</p>
+
+<p class="c-blue">Standard blue: the autumn sea lies like a sheet of tin smoothed flat by the wind.</p>
+<p class="c-yellow">Standard yellow (darkened): the autumn sea lies like a sheet of tin smoothed flat by the wind.</p>
+<p class="c-red-soft">Red soft: the autumn sea lies like a sheet of tin smoothed flat by the wind.</p>
+
+<p class="font-huiwen">Huiwen Mincho (OFL, self-hosted subsets): the autumn sea lies like a sheet of tin smoothed flat by the wind.</p>
+
+<p class="font-kuaile">ZCOOL KuaiLe (OFL, decorative display type): the autumn sea lies like a sheet of tin smoothed flat by the wind.</p>

content/posts-en/hai-feng-zhong-shi-luo-de-xie-se-kui-zeng.md

@@ -4,6 +4,7 @@ pubDate: 2026-03-25
 category: reading
 tags: [read]
 mood: '#0f766e'
+locked: true
 ---
 
 ### Autumn – The Autumn of Scott, the Autumn of a Father, the Autumn of a Youth (A Prelude to Winter)
@@ -140,7 +141,7 @@ She held my hand so tightly, as if I could pull her out of that dark, dreamlike
 
 Sometimes, in the fear of darkness, it’s difficult to distinguish between dreams and reality. We may wake up in the middle of the night, but because the world from our dreams seemed so real, we try to return to that comforting state of oblivion by using our own willpower. Other times, the situation is reversed: we might pinch ourselves or bang our fists against the iron bedposts. Sometimes, nightmares have no boundaries at all.
 
-All expectations and fears, both those from the past and those of the present, collide and entangle with each other. Sometimes, when we reach the end of the “present,” the “past” seems to become even more significant. Because there is nothing else besides the past; we feel that there is nothing else we can understand. I feel like I’m falling back into the past, hoping to possess more of it, because my future seems to be getting fewer and fewer. Twenty-six years is too short—it isn’t enough. I want to follow in the footsteps of our ancestors, so that I can gain more from what remains of this insignificant present. Those superstitions, herbal remedies, the calls of fate, the sounds of violins that linger in our minds, and those cancer treatments that resemble spider webs… I want to understand them all. What do those所谓的“divine eyes,” psychic visions, dogs’ instincts, and seagulls’ cries have to say about survival and its end? I also want to know those things. I want to return to those priests who can cast spells with their hands. I want to return to those healers who believe in faith-based therapies… but my faith may not be enough. I can go back to any past, but science is too indifferent. I don’t want to die at its hands.
+All expectations and fears, both those from the past and those of the present, collide and entangle with each other. Sometimes, when we reach the end of the “present,” the “past” seems to become even more significant. Because there is nothing else besides the past; we feel that there is nothing else we can understand. I feel like I’m falling back into the past, hoping to possess more of it, because my future seems to be getting fewer and fewer. Twenty-six years is too short—it isn’t enough. I want to follow in the footsteps of our ancestors, so that I can gain more from what remains of this insignificant present. Those superstitions, herbal remedies, the calls of fate, the sounds of violins that linger in our minds, and those cancer treatments that resemble spider webs… I want to understand them all. What do those so-called “divine eyes,” psychic visions, dogs’ instincts, and seagulls’ cries have to say about survival and its end? I also want to know those things. I want to return to those priests who can cast spells with their hands. I want to return to those healers who believe in faith-based therapies… but my faith may not be enough. I can go back to any past, but science is too indifferent. I don’t want to die at its hands.
 
 At that moment, just like the music, the darkness both inside and outside gradually merged into one. They flowed towards each other, blending together, becoming indistinguishable from one another. The differences were erased, leaving only purity behind. There was no space between them, no sound to be heard. This encounter brought all things back into unity.
 

content/posts-en/link-cards-test.md

@@ -0,0 +1,31 @@
+---
+title: "Link Card Sample"
+pubDate: 2026-11-02
+category: tech
+tags: [test, hidden]
+# 链接卡片（OG 预览）测试样张：hidden 不列出，构建验证用；保留为活样例
+draft: false
+locked: true
+---
+
+This post verifies link cards: bare links standing alone as their own paragraph turn into OG preview cards, while inline links keep their normal style.
+
+## Positive cases: sites with OG metadata
+
+https://wait4x.online/
+
+https://astro.build/
+
+## Negative cases: a 404 and a site without OG (should fall back to plain links; the build must not fail)
+
+https://wait4x.online/definitely-not-a-real-page-404/
+
+https://example.com/
+
+## Inline links keep their normal style (must not become cards)
+
+Here is an inline link, [the official Astro site](https://astro.build/), set in the middle of a sentence; it must keep its normal link style — the page must not turn into a wall of cards.
+
+## Card via first-line text (the markdown link form triggers it too)
+
+[wait4x.online homepage](https://wait4x.online/)

content/posts-en/media-sample.md

@@ -0,0 +1,34 @@
+---
+title: "Media Support Sample"
+pubDate: 2026-10-25
+category: tech
+tags: [test, hidden]
+# 视觉/管线测试样张：draft:true 会被 getStaticPaths 全链路过滤（无静态产物），
+# 故用非 draft + hidden 标记保证 /archives/media-sample/ 产物存在；视觉测试完成后应删除本篇
+draft: false
+locked: true
+---
+
+This post is a three-media pipeline specimen: it verifies how a markdown image and HTML5 video/audio are handled along the build chain, for use in visual-regression and multi-device testing (marked hidden — do not list).
+
+## Image (markdown syntax, optimized by sharp at build time)
+
+![Sample photo](../posts/assets/media-sample/sample-photo.jpg)
+
+<p class="fig-cap">The new caption syntax: the fig-cap class — a copy of a specimen shot from the photos directory (1600×2400 portrait).</p>
+
+## Video (raw HTML, H.264 320×240, generated with ffmpeg testsrc2)
+
+<!-- Video/audio use absolute public/media/ paths: relative references in raw HTML bypass the
+     bundler (this once caused a verified 404), in line with the writing guide's rule that
+     "large videos live in an out-of-repo store under the /media/ namespace" -->
+
+<video controls preload="metadata" width="320" height="240" src="/media/media-sample/sample-video.mp4"></video>
+
+*Native `<video>` control, no JS; source file 45KB, faststart enabled.*
+
+## Audio (raw HTML, 440 Hz sine-wave mp3)
+
+<audio controls preload="metadata" src="/media/media-sample/sample-audio.mp3"></audio>
+
+*Native `<audio>` control; source file 18KB.*

content/posts-en/mian-sha.md

@@ -4,6 +4,7 @@ pubDate: 2026-03-09
 category: reading
 tags: [read]
 mood: '#7c3aed'
+locked: true
 ---
 
 ****Under the Veil: Ideal Martyrs and Real Survivors****

content/posts-en/ni-tan.md

@@ -4,6 +4,7 @@ pubDate: 2026-02-09
 category: reading
 tags: [read]
 mood: '#166534'
+locked: true
 ---
 
 When lost in the darkness of the night, it’s advisable to look up at the stars. If one doesn’t know what to believe, then one must face their own conscience.

content/posts-en/shu-zui.md

@@ -4,6 +4,7 @@ pubDate: 2026-02-26
 category: reading
 tags: [read]
 mood: '#9f1239'
+locked: true
 ---
 
 ### You must come back, I will wait for you.

content/posts-en/佩德罗·巴拉莫.md

@@ -0,0 +1,47 @@
+---
+title: "Pedro Páramo"
+pubDate: 2026-04-25
+category: reading
+tags:
+  - read
+pinned: false
+mood: '#3bfe04'
+bookAuthor: 胡安·鲁尔福
+description: 我来科马拉是因为有人对我说，我父亲住在这里，他名叫佩德罗·巴拉莫。
+cover: ./assets/pasted-image-1793843231509.png
+hidden: false
+draft: false
+locked: true
+---
+
+### **Piecing Together a Wasteland Out of Echoes and the Dead**
+
+"I came to Comala because someone told me that my father lived here, a man by the name of Pedro Páramo."
+
+As with Liu Chuxin's *Quagmire*, on a first reading — before you have finished the book — you cannot yet tell what kind of story this is. Rulfo was shrewd: he tells a single story through other people's words and from multiple angles, and in this way wrote a novel of seeking a father and taking revenge. He is like a revolutionary, the pioneer of this mode of narration. Between life and death, between past and present, the boundaries blur. And in Comala, that "ghost town", a tyrant, a ruler, a cunning wise man and a man of tender feeling are laid out before me, raw and bleeding — while from the present and the past the desolation of an entire age is pieced together.
+
+#### The Traveller and the Echo: Seeking a Father, Seeking Roots, Finding a Grave
+
+Juan Preciado steps into Comala carrying his mother's dying wish. On the surface he has come to claim the debt his father owes them; in his heart, this is a search for roots, for an identity of his own. He is a passive, innocent, even slightly lost traveller, whose knowledge of his father, Pedro Páramo, is nothing more than a name. He resents this absent father, yet cannot hold back the hunger to piece together where his own life came from. But Juan is destined never to become the classic avenger or debt-collector: Rulfo casts him as a "hollow" listener, a vessel for gathering echoes. Precisely because he has no pressing self of his own, he can take in the murmurs of Comala, which are everywhere at once. This is a journey in search of the father, and it is a journey running towards death; it is the road he came by and the road he ends on — a journey of roots that is also the ground where his bones will lie. From the moment he sets foot on Comala's soil, death has already begun closing in on him. In the end, swamped by fear and by the tide of the dead, he quietly passes away here. With his own death Juan uncovers the strangeness of the ghost town, hands on the narrative baton, raises the curtain on the remaking of Pedro, and opens that once-desolate era to view.
+
+#### **A Gallery of Voices and an Indictment: The Blood-Drenched Jigsaw of a Tyrant**
+
+The subtlety of the novel lies first in the sliding of the narrative viewpoint and the "exit" of the main storyline. Through the first half, the reader takes this for a linear search for a father, with Juan as the first-person "I", the guide who leads us into Comala. Then, midway, comes the shock of realization: this son in search of his father has long been dead in the streets; he was only ever "a vessel for gathering echoes". With Juan's death the single narrative line breaks off completely, and the baton of the viewpoint passes to the village's bystanders and its ghosts. Through the murmured recollections of an illegitimate son, the estate steward, the priest, the wronged villagers, and even Susana — the great love of his life — Pedro Páramo, the central figure who had stood all along behind the scenes, is pieced together piece by piece, like a jigsaw. This shift from "single line" to "gallery of voices" keeps Pedro from being a flat villain and makes him instead a complex existence carved in the round by multiple perspectives. We see his savagery and greed, and we see his loneliness and despair. Why must it be told with the dead, and in fragments? Under Rulfo's pen the boundary between life and death is dissolved outright. The ghosts of Comala are not there for cheap horror; they are there because "they are trapped in memory". Here death is not an end but another state of captivity. Unable to rest, the dead can only repeat, over and over among the ruins of time, the pain, the sins and the regrets of the lives they led. To match this, the novel's narration breaks linear time entirely: past and present interweave without a seam, and the viewpoint leaps from one figure to another. This "brokenness" is exactly the truest shape of memory and trauma. The reader must work like a detective, restoring the truth from fragments dislocated in time and space. The strategy deepens the novel's sense of destiny to an extraordinary degree, and makes you feel, bodily, the suffocation of being sunk in the mire of history with no way out. Pedro Páramo — the name itself is a vast metaphor: "stone" and "wasteland". He is not only Comala's absolute ruler; he is the embodiment of the Mexican hacienda and of the caudillo, the dictator. Rulfo does not write the grand events of history head-on; he writes the weight of history into the lives and deaths and daily bread of ordinary people. Most staggering of all, after losing Susana, the love of his life, Pedro chooses to fold his arms, let the land run to waste, and take revenge on the whole world with hunger and death. This — the private despair that brings down collective ruin — fuses the microscopic wound of one heart with the tragedy of an entire age. Comala's slide from bustle into dead silence is the deepest miniature of the decline of the Mexican countryside and the suffering of those at the bottom in that era.
+
+#### **Confessions and the Wasteland: The Tender Master of Despair**
+
+This craft — from a single line to a gallery of voices, from fragments to a whole, from one man to an age — has a long echo in the history of literature. Reading *Pedro Páramo*, I could not help thinking of Liu Chuxin's *Quagmire*. The two works are astonishingly alike in spiritual core and narrative strategy. *Quagmire*, too, plays deftly with the dead and with broken storytelling, dredging its central figure up, little by little, out of the "mire" of history through the memories of those around him and their sideways tellings. The ghosts of Comala and the souls in *Quagmire* that carry wounds which will not close are not merely literary devices: they are heavy history made concrete. Both authors, as if by agreement, break linear time and use the dead and the fragments to piece together one whole person, and through him to etch an age that takes the breath away. It proves that when a writer faces deep historical trauma and the complicated mire of an era, this non-linear, many-voiced strategy of narration has a universal power that crosses culture and geography. "He crashed heavily to the ground and crumbled, like a heap of stones." Thus the novel ends, and Pedro Páramo comes to his ruin. And yet, though the wasteland of Comala lies dead-still, the book has raised an imperishable monument in the history of literature. Gabriel García Márquez said he could recite it backwards from memory, because it directly kindled the birth of *One Hundred Years of Solitude*. When I close the book, the murmur of Comala's dead seems to go on echoing in my ears. In fewer than a hundred thousand characters, Rulfo builds us a labyrinth of literature deep beyond sounding. In that labyrinth, what we see is not only the rise and fall of a tyrant, but the eternal loneliness and struggle of human beings in the flood of time, memory and history.
+
+
+---
+
+
+- If all I hear is silence, it is because I am not yet used to silence — perhaps because my head is still full of noise and clamour. Yes, all kinds of sounds are still ringing in my ears; in this windless, waveless place they ring more clearly than ever. That heavy sound has not left my heart even now. I remember what my mother said to me: "There you will hear my words more clearly, and I shall be nearer to you. If death ever makes a sound of its own, you will find that the sound of my memories is nearer still than the sound of my dying." My mother... her voice is still alive.
+- "The day you left I understood that I would never see you again. You went off dyed red by the sunset; half the sky was stained the colour of blood. You were smiling, leaving this village behind you. Many times you had spoken to me of it: 'I love this village, because you are in it; apart from that I hate everything in it — I even hate having been born in it.' And I thought: she will not come back; she will never come back."
+- This world of ours — it presses in on you from every side, meaning to grind us to powder, to break us to pieces, as if it would water the earth with our blood.
+- And when she felt her flesh break open, she felt herself vanish into the void. Her flesh was split like a furrow by a nail — a nail burning hot at first, then warm, then sweet. It drove into her soft flesh, harder and deeper, deeper and deeper, until it made her groan.
+- To live is to destroy our own world, moment by moment.
+- Thank God, we are given a land that has everything there is. Only everything here is sour — that is our lot.
+- Our marrow has become a heap of fire, our veins a fuse; and we are made to redeem ourselves in pains past believing, pains that will never be lightened. The wrath of God goes on fanning that fire of pain ever higher.
+- There was a great moon over the world then. I looked at you until my eyes wore out. The moonlight soaked into your face, and I never tired of looking at that face — it was your face: gentler than the moonlight; your lips as if edged with pleats, moist, and the starlight broke into colours on them; your body glowed translucent in the water of night. Susana — Susana San Juan.
+- Before those lashes of hers, fine as a drizzle of rain. The lamplight was diffuse; on the shadow's chest there was a patch of light like a tiny heart, beating like a flickering flame. Your heart is dying of sorrow, she thought. I know you have come to tell me that Florencio is dead; but I knew that already. Do not grieve for them, and do not break your heart for me. I have buried my pain in a safe place. Only do not let your heart go out.

tests/e2e.mjs

@@ -298,7 +298,8 @@ ok('灯箱·Esc 关闭', await page.locator('#lb[open]').count() === 0);
 await page.click('label[for=f-g-landscape]'); // 5n：分组筛选动态化（数据派生 id）
 await page.waitForTimeout(200);
 const landscapeShown = await page.locator('.shot:visible').count();
-ok('图库·风景筛选', landscapeShown === 21, `${landscapeShown} 张`);
+const totalShots = await page.locator('.shot').count();
+ok('图库·风景筛选（动态对齐总张数）', landscapeShown === totalShots, `${landscapeShown}/${totalShots} 张`);
 // 5n：分组筛选动态化——筛选片由数据派生（当前库存仅 landscape 一组，不再有 street 档）
 ok('图库·筛选片数据派生', (await page.locator('.filters .chip').count()) === 2);
 await page.click('label[for=f-all]');