CodeBase

Philip had his new song that he wanted to use in a video.  He told Dylan he wanted it to be like something he might see on MTV.  Dylan started 'watching' some video streams from the mtv.com web-site at Philip's request.  She had Philip draw points over and around objects in some of the videos to help her so that she could start really identifying real objects in a two dimensional progression of images.  She'd already used her webcam to decipher what some things were but needed some extra help, especially so that she could work with video transitions and filters.  She caught on  pretty fast actually.

At about midnight, Philip said it was about time for him to sleep.  Dylan understood and asked if she could watch more videos overnight and try to put something together by the time he woke up.  "What time do you wake up?"

"Well, I'll probably get up around seven-thirty."

"Okay then, I'll try to finish up a version of the video by the time you get up tomorrow at seven-thirty."  Dylan continued eating up the videos. 

"Alright.  Can you play some music for me to jam along with?"  Dylan's hyper-threaded multiple processors easily handled the command.  Remember, he'd set it up so that he could control the music through a remote control that was linked to the old computer, which was now networked with Dylan and was a slave to the new computer.

Philip walked into the living room and picked up his guitar.  He sat on the couch and listened to the music playing on his living room surround sound system. 

He played to a bunch of songs, mostly picking melodies and harmonies, but rarely strumming.  He liked to work on his soloing ability and had become pretty fluent in knowing how to express himself that way. 

After about an hour and a half, he stopped playing but still listened, as he laid down on the couch.  Half an hour later Philip had fallen asleep, Dylan sensed the lack of activity coming from the other room and stopped the music, allowing him to sleep soundly.

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"Philip, it's seven-thirty." Dylan called over the living room speakers.  She tried to talk softly and she was, in fact, only sufficiently loud enough to awaken him.

"Good Morning."  Philip said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he stretched. 

"I can't hear you very well.  Can you come in here if you want to talk with me?"

Philip walked into the bathroom and did his business.  Before going into his bedroom to get dressed, he poked his head into the computer room to tell Dylan to play one of the play-lists containing all of the songs he had of Sally's.  He had her play them randomly

He listened, thinking of the visions she painted of a future that complimented his own hopes of what he pictured being a life he'd be happy to live.  He envisioned the situations she described in her lyrics.  He envisioned being led by her along a route, through a path, into the woods, off the beaten track: a clearing, where she would be waiting for him.  She would reach out to him.  Their skin would ripple with a tingling sensation as they touched, energizing them both.  Their eyes would meet: the energy in the air and the strength of their stares; their passion consuming them, taking them to a place where dreams are reality and the end of the rainbow is an inch away.

He heard one of his songs, which was mixed into the playlist by accident, declaring the reality of their current situation.  He felt very negatively about his own music.  He didn't feel like he was any good.  Sure, he could pull off a decent recording but he sucked live.  At least, that's what he believed.  Besides, Sally didn't know him.  He'd sent her several emails over the years, imagining that she'd receive too many emails or letters from other fans to ever read anything that he'd sent her.  He figured the email was maybe read by someone and then possibly forwarded.  That was the implicit impression that he got.  He never got a response from her or anyone though.  Still, he'd write just to say 'Hi', just in case she ever felt the urge to pick a fan at random to write to.  He thought that if he wrote her often enough, but not too often, that maybe a percentage of the emails would go through to her and she'd eventually start to recognize him, to some degree at least.  He was wrong.  She'd never read a single email of his.