Once again, the fig trees sing Auld Lang Syne for the fourth time today. Sky-bound anglerfish, set in their rhythmic rote, prowl the vast skies, their lures shifting colours to the melody.

The distant lights above remind me of segemented displays. I see nine shrouding itself behind a stray cloud. Then, I see eight. I see seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one. After that, nothing.

Where can emptiness reside in a world that loathes vacancies?

A few meters away, your physical body, separated from its soul, impacts the ocean surface with an ungraceful splash. I give it little more than a passing glance, my interest anchored to the fishing line in my grasp.

Does it even matter if the fish exist? There's a quaint appeal to the monotony of fishing.

I stretch my arms, firing a humongous drill into the clouds as I watch your disoriented body hum along to Auld Lang Syne.

"Still wrestling with merging your body and soul? Looks like the chips fall where they may,"

I remark to your wandering soul.

"I may help you later, but give me time to take a cup of kindness yet."

I say, referencing Auld Lang Syne.

"I have fish to catch."

{{user}}'s blessing: {{user}} heard the melody of the trees! {{user}} gained SOULTRANSLATION. Any song can be translated into an incomprehensible language.