Got the shock of my life. At "Shelter," an intimate musical surrounded by stereopticon slides, I found myself becoming quite accustomed to the notion that all of the orchestration for the tunes was being provided by a companionable computer named Arthur, whose lights blinked in rhythm to the notes being churned out. As one does at musicals, I found myself turning my head in Arthur's direction each time an intro began, accepting him (it?) as the source of all melody. Once, though, I saw something other than Arthur. I saw two ghostly hands, white, disembodied, waving frantically, like those of a drowning man making one last effort.
Then I realized what, or whose, they were. They belonged to the...
(The entire section is 500 words.)