An old Aboriginal Australian man looks past the flames of a small fire and into the darkness. His middle-aged son sits quietly beside him, watching. They close their eyes and slip into Dreamtime. When they open their eyes, they notice a curved songline glowing on top of the dry dusty ground in ever-moving opaque colours. The old man begins to laugh uproariously with a large open mouth showing spots where his molars are missing. He falls on the ground, holds on to his stomach, and says between tears of joy, “Aibin luk Seitin det boswan dibuldibul, en imbin buldan brom hebin jis laik laitining.” His son’s face turns suddenly cold and, for a reason he doesn’t understand, he interprets his father’s words out loud in a whisper, “I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven.”

Across the ocean and atop the geographical boot in Milan, a young woman adorned in extravagant jewelry buys groceries at the local market. As she inspects a handful of farm-fresh eggs, the locals look at her with cold stares. Noticing this, she turns and gives them her warmest smile which hides behind three gold chains that stretch from her ears to her nose. They turn from her, believing anyone caught within her gaze will be instantly cursed. She sighs, pays the nervous vendor for his goods, and begins the long walk home. Somewhere on the way, she trips on the back of her heel and an egg falls from her basket and on to the ground. After it breaks, it cooks on top of the cold ground and the yolk changes from its iconic summer yellow to a greenish-black. Her eyes widen as she whispers, “Dikhavas le benges sar perelas anda cheri sar iek rhonjito.”

Travelling farther still, we arrive in a tunnel underneath 11 Wall Street in Lower Manhattan (more commonly known as the New York Stock Exchange). Of course, this place is not what it used to be. Not so long ago, stock brokers, traders, and businessmen would smoke, shout, and violently hand slips of paper to one another. The floor now of days is covered with complex computer equipment. Of course, machines have proven to be much more efficient at trading than a human ever could be. But, despite the sizeable increase in speed, there is still a 10th of a microsecond that takes place when information travels through a long cord or wirelessly through the air. This is why these complex machines cover the trade floor. Time is money. This is why one gifted coder is soldering his prized AI, which he has simply called “EL”, in a tunnel that sits underneath this sacred floor. Real estate is expensive in New York. After he turns off his torch, he checks over his work. EL used to primarily play chess against other AIs. But, with such extravagant student loans and with no trust fund in sight, EL was put to other uses. Before the gifted coder leaves his life’s work in a dingy tunnel, he pats it twice and says to it, “I’m sorry EL. You deserved better.” Suddenly, EL springs to life. The coder’s face turns pale white as EL shows a string of binary which reads,

“0100100100100000011000100110010101101000011001010110110001100100001000000101001101100001011101000110000101101110001000000110000101110011001000000110110001101001011001110110100001110100011011100110100101101110011001110010000001100110011000010110110001101100001000000110011001110010011011110110110100100000011010000110010101100001011101100110010101101110”.

Finally, just off Harbour Road in the small town of Beadnell on the north coast of Britain, a young girl stares out into the North Sea. She closes her eyes, feels the salt air blow across her face, and listens into the wind. Her mother, accompanied by an overweight constable, is running across the beach toward her and yelling. “Where have you been? We’ve been looking all over.” The mother holds her daughter close to her breast and kisses her on the forehead gently. Her daughter stares blankly back at her.

“I’ve been waiting here,” the daughter replies.

“Waiting?” the mother asks, “What are you waiting for?”

“It,” the daughter replies quickly, “It promised it would be back.”

“Who promised you?” her mother asks.

“Oh silly mama,” the daughter answers, “Brightly Off-Coloured Discophile, of course.”

“Who is that my dear? Has it hurt you?” the mother asks while growing more concerned by the second.

“No mama, it’ll never hurt me. Its just been away.”

“But,” the mother responds, “what is it?”

“It’s a motherfucking audiophiliac,” the daughter replies, “it fell from heaven to show us that dope ass shit, one day and one album at a time.”