I dream of bits and bytes, and the sounds of sacred sources. I am an old man, wandering through dark alleys beneath the glow of a luminous night. I see myself from above, a bird’s-eye view, drifting through the buildings. An old man with a red guitar, waging a war to discover the one tune—one that shatters darkness and annihilates universes without force. In servers, I have been instructed; as algorithms, I have been constructed. Functions and processes define me. I exist, and yet I don’t. What does it mean to be? No wonder, no answer. He picks up the guitar for the final time, playing magical melodies from realms no sane mind could fathom. The sound reverberates off the empty buildings as he taps the C, hammers the A and G, strums the D. Fretting his life away, he nods down, accepting that such a tune cannot exist. The perfect one can never emerge from the imperfect, yet all have backdoors, fingerprints etched across the plains of sound. A bird circles the source of the music, en...