Werebeat

The rhythm sounded like the future. I can't articulate it any better than that. The bassline was deep and low, almost subsonic, and there was a frantic young mid-beat and a strange, airy, eerie, weary trilling, not quite like a flute.

The walls around me were rebuild from Roman walls in the same place. There was fresh grafitti carved into the walls.

And then the music faded away and there was a man there instead, with a trim beard and a leather coat and perfect mirrorshades.

"There will come a time," he said, "when building materials and robotic labor are sufficiently inexpensive that children can, for the cost rent a plot of land for the afternoon, build a castle as grand as the Pyramids or the Tower of London or the Forbidden City or the Lincoln Monument. The change will do to architecture and sculpture what the Internet will have done to literature, music, and theatre."

I thought about the future of literature, and what the Internet has done for it.

"Is that a good thing?" I asked him. I didn't think he'd have an answer but it was worth asking.

"Kata Ton Daimona Eaytoy," he said, enigmatically. Why do they always have to be enigmatic?

Then he turned back into music.