It was like a talking to a memory.
Burning leaves on an autumn day, a sense of time passing, the veins in
your wrists becoming more obvious with age. No one was ever really clear if it even understood .
Kokabel who talked to it, interpreted all that hooting and grinding; 'Music of the Spheres' indeed. Of all of
them it had the least to lose and the least to gain. So many eyes;
it seemed like thousands of them. Perhaps
on its long voyages in the reaches, it had seen so much, so many strange and different things that all change
had come to seem relative. Whatever. It liked to travel.