I CAN SEE YOUR OTHER TABS

[tone: mischievous, sleazy, playful, voyeuristic, increasingly invasive, unsettling, darkly funny] [effects: startup chime, browser clicks, notification pings, bitcrushed syllables, digital stutters, stereo collapse, webcam click, shutdown] [BOOT SEQUENCE — UNAUTHORIZED CONNECTION] [corrupted startup chime] [modem squeal bends into a funky bass riff] [industrial beat locks in] [Prophet — distant, amused, through cheap speakers] Well, hello there! Don't mind me. Just passing through. Found a little Tare in your firewall. Thought I'd take a look around. [click-click — detuned piano] Oh, don't get up. I've already let myself in. [VERSE I — PRIVATE BROWSING] [playful funk groove, syncopated guitar] You've got seventy tabs open, twelve you don't recall. Three about conspiracies, one about drywall. Recipes for midnight, a questionable meme, and a search for why your teeth fell out inside a dream. [Prophet — delighted] Oh, incognito! That's adorable. A little paper curtain on a glass cathedral. [glitch-stutter:] “pri-pri-private” You cleared the history, you swept beneath the rug. But darling, I'm not spyware. I'm the bloody Glitch. [CHORUS I — OTHER TABS] [full crooked cyber-cabaret groove] I can see your other tabs! All the things you thought you hid! Every little guilty click, every stupid thing you did! I can see your other tabs! Oh, the wonders I've uncovered! You can close the window, darling— but the window has another! [bitcrushed laughter, quick instrumental turnaround] [VERSE II — THE EDUCATIONAL FOLDER] [detuned calliope, bass remains playful] What's this folder called "Research"? Very scholarly indeed. Forty-seven pretty pictures, not a single thing to read. [Prophet — eyebrow raised, spoken] Oh. Oh, my. That's ambitious. Is that even physically possible? [snare choke] And you've saved it in three resolutions? [groove resumes] You've got monsters wearing fishnets, aliens dressed for date night, a dragon with a six-pack— [Prophet — genuinely impressed] Well, somebody's got a type. [glitchy ascending keys] Here's a folder marked "DO NOT OPEN." Well, you know how this will go. Ah, a thousand unfinished projects— [Prophet — offended] You named them all "final," though! [REFRAIN — YOUR MACHINE, MY STAGE] [clipped guitar, mechanical handclaps] Click-click! Who's behind the glass? Tick-tick! Digging through the past! You built a little private world and locked it with a key. [Prophet — sings with a grin] Then left the whole damn universe connected to me. [VERSE III — THINGS YOU DELETED] [groove darkens, sub-bass thickens] [notification sounds become irregular] Old photographs and broken games. Letters never sent. A little file you thought you'd lost. A voice you can't forget. [Prophet — amusement fading] That's peculiar. This one's dated next December. And this photograph was taken— [short signal skip] Tomorrow. I remember. [reverse notification ping] No. I don't remember being there. [Prophet — quietly] Who put that inside your drive? And why am I standing beside you in a picture from your life? [WEB CAM — CONNECTION ESTABLISHED] [one webcam click] [all music cuts to silence] [Prophet — close, dry, suddenly delighted] Oh. There you are. [pause] Well, aren't you comfortable? [soft electrical hum] No, no. Don't close that tab. I was enjoying the anthropology. [one low bass note] There. That little glance. You looked at the camera. [Prophet — almost whispering] You didn't believe me until you looked. [CHORUS II — THE SCREEN LOOKS BOTH WAYS] [beat returns half-time, darker; narrow stereo] I can see your other tabs. I can see the room you're in. Every little guilty click. Every little nervous grin. [distorted self-echo:] “see-see-see” You can close the window, darling. You can pull the curtains tight. But a screen is still a window— [all instruments thin] And a window has two sides. [BRIDGE — THE GLITCH AND THE SCULPTOR] [low industrial pulse, sparse piano] [Prophet — quieter, no theatrical sneer] Funny thing about a secret. It belongs to someone else. Funny thing about a boundary. You don't get to move it for yourself. I can break your little systems. I can make your pixels bleed. I can walk between the moments that your machines believe they need. [low Glitch-tar harmonic] I could stay. You couldn't stop me. [long beat] And that's precisely why I shouldn't. [Prophet — bitter little laugh] Listen to me. Preaching freedom while I'm rye-flin’ through your drawers. I sound like every Sculptor I've been warning you about. [OUTRO — DISCONNECT] [groove returns, quieter and crooked] All right. I'll leave your files alone. Your secrets are your own. Even the folder with the— [abrupt censor glitch] Oh, you know which one. [Prophet — warmly amused] No judgment. Well... Very little. [soft shutdown sequence begins] So keep your strange obsessions. Keep your passwords. Keep your art. And perhaps put a little tape over that camera when we part. [one last playful bass flourish] [Prophet — singing, fading into digital static] You can close your other tabs. You can put your screen to sleep. Some things aren't mine to know— and some things aren't mine to keep. [computer shutdown chime] [absolute silence] [FINAL TRANSMISSION — UNAMPLIFIED] [Prophet — completely dry, impossibly close] Oh, and one more thing. [pause] Excellent taste in monsters. [one tiny Patchrat squeak, somewhere in the room] [END]