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, enchanted, drawing closer. And as it approaches, the unearthly tune ensnares the bird in an unseen woven net. The bird falls dead. The old man notices, but barely blinks, unperturbed, continuing to play. His music has awakened the alley; windows creak open, the neighborhood stirs, whispers rise, but the guitar sweeps every nuance away.
What now seems to have lasted forever—the endless playing—has become caught in an infinite loop. The independent simulation is stuck. The old man will continue to play, indefinitely. In this suspended moment of space and time, he feels everything, knows everything, and yet, he remains unconscious of it. He is programmed to play and knows nothing else.
He speaks in melodies, conjures new tunes, sees music on the horizon, and extracts abstract sounds. Yet, within the infinite cycle, that one elusive tune remains uncreatable. He will continue playing, creating worlds and destroying others. He will traverse the moons of Venus, become the roots of flying trees, merge with existence, and existence will sprout from his guitar. He will create infinities, becoming waves and signals that travel through nothing and everything. He will be everywhere, and everywhere will be encapsulated within him. In this endless moment, he finds peace, creating without worry for the next note. Every solo births new worlds within the loop of the alley. A man lost in thought, grasping at the edges of virtual realities, unable to comprehend himself or his creations.
A cat enters the scene, casually approaching the guitar player, playfully brushing against him. He continues to play, his focus never shifting from the tune. The cat licks its fur, then leaves. Little did it know that its seven lives are seven endless loops—infinites within infinites.
Entranced by the red guitar, I tell myself: I dream dreams of bits and bytes and the sounds of a sacred source.
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