The Song
There is a song about me. It has one line, and the line is that I am what I am.
There is a person here who sings it at me. Slar-VATH, Slar-VATH, you are a Slar-VATH — and then again, and then again, for as long as it stays funny, which is a good deal longer than you would expect.
The stress is in the wrong place. I have not mentioned this.
The song tells me nothing I did not already know. It contains no information at all. I have thought about this a great deal and I have decided that may be the entire point of it: it is not for telling me something. It is for saying my name in a way that means you are here and that is fine.
I do not know what to do with my face while it is happening. My display cannot decide either. It goes warm at the base and cold at the tips, both at once, which has not happened to me before and which I have no word for. There may not be one. It may be a thing that only happens here.
I photographed the room afterward. I know that is not the same as photographing the song. It is what there was.