The mortals visited the singer once every few years, asking questions they deemed terribly important, about the affairs of local kingdoms and the sway of history. Sometimes the singer would oblige, tapping into the mind of the datasphere, but most often it would continue with its song, tentacles swaying in a rhythm no other mind could comprehend. If the mortals understood time as it did, heard the rhythm of the stars, they would not ask their questions. They would understand how meaningless their lives were. All that mattered was the song, the search, for its one star, its undying love.