The Beginning ~ Dies irae

Quærens me, sedisti lassus:

Redemisti Crucem passus:

Tantus labor non sit cassus.

There is something about music. Birds sing, crickets chirp, and whales produce unique frequencies. Humans, however, do not need biologically structured vocal cords to create music. A vibrato can come from smashing an office desk or the random popping of caps in urban areas. In 2077, musicians often follow the lead of the late Leon Theremin, using harmonious electric waveforms to create music that blares at major space shuttle stops. O, great Theremin, may you rest in eternal bliss and immortality as your name suggests. But eavesdropping on the U.S. embassy is a literal pain.

In prehistoric times, people blindfolded themselves (either by developing nyctalopia or wrapping cloth around their eyes) to make music. This practice allowed less data to flow across the neural-electric system, making more room for listening to the sound being made. It also induced a fear of being mugged, which increased brain activity, another benefit for music. Due to a lack of documentation, it is unclear if people back then were also subject to muggings, but I assume so, as it seems to be a constant in life.

However, there are places free from lasers and shells. Among the stars, glittering in geostationary orbit 35,786 kilometers above the ground, lies Bukkodan, a sacred space station that doubles as a concert hall.

"We accept all people from all backgrounds," their ads proclaimed, and they stayed true to their word. Bukkodan was a safe haven where even the toughest thug could be moved to tears, frantically handing out luxurious napkins made from actual wood rather than plastic to strangers. Such was Bukkodan.

I had a ticket to Bukkodan. It cost 114 inter-galactic credits, the culmination of my life's work as a roaming musician, or "the Bum." The moment had arrived. In 30 minutes, a shuttle would descend, and a waiter would dress me in a decent suit I had ordered. I would be taken to Bukkodan, where I would listen to the music rather than making an illegal recording to profit from. I would share the story with everyone in my neighborhood for the rest of my life.

The ticket is in my right hand. It glistens holographically, depicting five gothic-dressed and outlandishly masked girls I know nothing about. It was gold, and it was mine. 

Preces meæ non sunt dignæ:

Sed tu bonus fac benigne,

Ne perenni cremer igne.

ZAP.

I hit the floor. A larger pair of hands snapped the crystal-clear ticket made out of crystal and silicon from my hand. I could not look up. 

"Holy." I said while inspecting this new roundy shape near my heart. The robber said no more.

And then the shuttle discended. It was purly white and had a golden line around it, just like (and probably is) a space limousine. The waiter came out, and accept the ticket from the thug that is still waving the SpaceOppZapper 3000 around. Neither looked at me even once.

Then the door sealed shut and enclosed all the warm orange glow from the inside. The long legs of the shuttle folded up, the shuttle lifting itself in a thrust of flame from blue to red that is probably the excess heat radiating out in the form of light falling into the human-preceptible spectrum, and sped towards Bukkodan.

Inter oves locum præsta,

Et ab hædis me sequestra,

Statuens in parte dextra.

I moaned in agony and waited for His gentle touch. Three minutes later, the senses got around me and I called up my doctor instead. There is no reason to feel sad; for I had similarly poured my life's savings onto a SpaceOppZapper 4500 to purchase a ticket from some poor unsuspecting soul. 

ETA to Mujica's first Bukkodan LIVE: 72 hours, 31 minutes, and 12 seconds.