Thirteen Turing Tests is a narrative concept album — part rock musical, part audio drama, part existential identity crisis.

Four academics form a band. They sing about impostor syndrome, burnout, gatekeeping, and identity. And somewhere between rehearsal and recursion... they begin to suspect things are not as they seem.

Thirteen Turing Tests: A Narrative Album

Welcome.
I hope you’re having a nice day.

Please, sit down.
Get comfortable.

Take a moment to silence your phones—
not just out of respect for the performers,
but out of respect for yourself.

Because if you’re distracted...
you might miss something meant just for you.

This is a story about four people who thought they’d have some fun and make music.
They were wrong.

But we don’t tell them that yet.

For now—
they’re just tired, brilliant, and trying to be heard.

Ready?

Here we go.

It begins, as these things often do—
with noise no one hears.

The shuffle of lecture notes.
The hum of a printer out of ink.
A forced smile from someone who signs the evaluations
but not the paychecks.

Four minds—clever, tired, brilliant—
drawn together by a shared fatigue.
Not of students.
Not of research.
But of the thousand little absurdities between them and meaning.

They don’t start a band to be heard.
They start one to scream—without footnotes or filters.

To turn spreadsheets into snare drums.
To make the faculty handbook moshable.

They call themselves Axioms of Mediocrity.

They think it’s clever.

It’s not that clever.
Unless you’re an academic who’s had a few pints.

But it doesn’t matter.

Axioms of Mediocrity it is.

Not yet knowing they’re also the control group.

This is Test 1.

A pub.
A storm.
And a rant that turns into rhythm.

It starts where all great rock begins:
with something that pisses you off.

A student who wants their hand held.
A system that calls that “support.”

Kate’s voice cuts through the noise—
sharp as a snapped guitar string.

And from that noise
comes a song.

Song: I'm Not Your

Dear student, it baffles me that I must say,
I'm not your parent in any way
I won't nudge you at the crack of dawn
Choosing classes? That's on you, come on!
Act your age, step up to the plate
I'm just here to educate.

I'm not your mother
I'm not your father
I'm not your friend
I'm not your clerk
Stand up, show up, do the work

Dear student, hear me loud and clear
I'm not your babysitter, dear.
Party all night? That's your call
Homework done? Not my problem at all
Exams looming? You better prepare
Your future boss will know if you cared

I'm not your mother
I'm not your father
I'm not your friend
I'm not your clerk
Stand up, show up, do the work

Dear student, let's get it straight
I'm not your secretary, not here to wait
Won't fill your forms, nor google your stuff
Reading the syllabus isn't that tough
Being an adult isn't just a phrase
It's your ticket through this maze

I'm not your mother
I'm not your father
I'm not your friend
I'm not your clerk
Stand up, show up, do the work

Dear student, it's clear I must convey
I'm not your hire, not in any way
I do care, yet you must stand strong
Your life, your choice, right or wrong

Test 1: Who Do They Think You Are? (I'm Not Your)

The first song was for themselves.
A scream into the void.

But the void listens.

Not just students.
Not just academics.
But strangers with usernames like BluePrinter47 and QuietTomCat12.

Now it’s not just about venting.
It’s about telling their stories.

They meet in the seminar room at 7 p.m.
There’s a soft sweetness in the air, like a freshly baked cookie vanished just moments ago.

Kate clears the whiteboard.
“Let’s write one for the people we’ve lost.”

Julian looks up. “You mean… who left academia?”
Kate nods.

Theo grins. “Oh. We’re doing a murder ballad.”

Ava grabs a marker and starts writing.

One line’s about failed exams.
Another’s about rejections—again and again.
Someone adds a verse for the colleague who finally makes it…
then loses everything overnight.

They never say names.
Everyone has someone in mind.

It starts as a joke.
It ends in a silence no one wants to break.

This is Test 2.

A song for everyone who doesn’t get to finish the track—
but still echoes in the melody.

Song: Ten Little Scholars

Ten little students applied to grad schools
One didn't ace his exams, and then there were nine

Nine little students, their packets prepared
One's references faltered, and then there were eight

Eight little graduate students, their studies like forts
One failed her comps badly, and then there were seven

Seven little graduate students sought ideas that inspire
One found no thesis topic, and then there were six

Six little graduate students did their research
One was tempted by big money, and then there were five

Five little graduate students went on the job market
One got zero flyouts, and then there were four

Four little assistant professors submitted their papers
One got only rejections, and then there were three

Three little assistant professors went up for tenure
One was voted down, and then there were two

Two little associate professors applied for promotions
One had no grant funding, and then there was one

One little professor left all alone
He went and got himself canceled, and then there were none

Test 2: Do You Remember the Ones We Lost? (Ten Little Scholars)

You could call this a band meeting.
Or a mass anxiety ritual with instruments.

In academia, everyone is always waiting on something.
Something that might change everything overnight.

Ava, the drummer, keeps refreshing the Research Council portal.
She’s a political theorist,
specializing in collective action—
and yet, she can’t get anyone to refill the kettle.

Julian’s bass rests in his lap.
He doesn’t play a note.
He’s a sociologist,
with a niche focus on urban rituals and public silence.
At the moment, he is very silent.

Kate—composer, guitarist, vocalist, part-time firestarter—
is a mathematician.
She has three browser tabs open:
her course website,
YouTube,
and reviewer comments she refuses to read until the riff is finished.

Theo’s a microeconomist,
writing a song in 11/7 time.
He calls it “trembling-hand perfection.”
He’s also the band’s keyboardist.
And somehow still doesn’t understand how either stock markets or volume knobs work.

They are all excellent in their fields.
And all absolutely convinced
they’re about to be found out.

This is Test 3.

Not a breakdown.
Not a breakthrough.

Just the sacred, caffeinated space
between “Submit”
and “Decision”.

Song: Countdown to Fate

I'm staring at the screen, my heart is racing
Results of my exams, my future's in the making
Do I make it to the top, or do I take the fall?
My big dreams, they rise and they stall

I'm waiting for results, it's out of my control
My life's on the edge, like a rock 'n' roll
In this countdown to fate, I scream and I shout
But it's all in vain, there's joy and doubt

Submission's in review, my hands are shaking
Will they love my work, or leave me breaking?
Well, will my name light up, in the halls of fame?
Or will they forget me, just another name?

I'm waiting for results, it's out of my control
My life's on the edge, like a rock 'n' roll
In this countdown to fate, I scream and I shout
But it's all in vain, there's joy and doubt

Tick-tock, the clock mocks my nerves of steel
Waiting on fate, it's a raw, twisted deal
I've given my all, now the die is cast
Holding my breath, will this moment last?

Now it's not just me, but the ones I guide
Children and students, I feel their stride
Will they climb the heights, or stumble down?
Their futures like mine, wear a waiting crown

I'm waiting for results, it's out of my control
My life's on the edge, like a rock 'n' roll
In this countdown to fate, I scream and I shout
But it's all in vain, there's joy and doubt

Every second counts
Hearts beating fast
The pressure mounts
This too shall pass
We find our way
We won't hesitate
We seize the day
In our countdown to fate!

Test 3: Do You Belong Here? (Countdown to Fate)

Theo scribbles formulas.
Ava and Julian edit with headphones on.

Kate has been quiet all morning.
Then she says:

“Did you ever notice...
every dream we had as kids has a gatekeeper?”

Everyone looks up.

“Like, you can be anything—
but only if someone lets you.
And they never look like us.”

Theo blinks.
“Us?”

Kate shrugs.
“Geeks. Girls. Weird girls. I’m not sure.
At least the ones who didn’t decorate their homework.”

Ava nods, slowly.

“Astronaut. Scientist. Rockstar.
Same club.
Same rules.
Not everyone gets past the door.”

She pauses. Then adds:

“Yesterday, my colleague told me I was
‘refreshingly competent for someone so energetic.’”

Julian groans.
Theo winces.
Ava doesn’t say anything—
but her teacup hits the saucer a little too hard.

Kate pulls out an old journal—
worn, duct-taped, nearly falling apart.

On the cover, in careful block letters:
A PROPERTY OF CATALINA A-P: SCIENTIST, ASTRONAUT, AND ROCKSTAR.

Inside, there’s a poem.
It has verses.
About moon rocks.
About labs.
About fire and sound.

This is Test 4.

About the gatekeepers.
The subtle eye-rolls.
The velvet ropes dressed as “peer standards.”

About how every system that claims to measure talent
starts by measuring tone of voice, confidence, and compliance.

About good little boys who grow up to be respected men—
and good little girls who grow up to be helpful women.

Song: Rocket Girl

Someday I'll be an astronaut
In shiny suit I'll take a shot
Float and spin inside magic dome
Comets spin around my bright home
I'll scoop moon rocks from silver sand
Sketch their secrets in my own hand

But they tell me, "You're just a girl,
dreaming too far ..."
Can’t I rewrite my story?
Show them who we are?

Watch me fly
Touch the sky
I'll be strong
Hear my song

Someday I'll be a scientist
I'll cross off theories from my list
I'll blend compounds in my own lab
I'll trap rare atoms in glass slab
I'll spark new cures before the sun
Then heal the world when work is done

They whisper, "Settle down,
choose something small ..."
But why should I shrink
when my dreams stand tall?

Watch me fly
Touch the sky
I'll be strong
Hear my song

Someday I'll be a rockstar
I'll fire the crowd from near and far
My guitar screams they'll hear me loud
I'll rise above the chanting crowd
I'll roll the miles on back roads wide
Then face the dawn with roar and pride

They say, "Be quiet now,
don't speak so loud ..."
But silence never changed the world,
I'll make myself proud!

Watch me fly
Touch the sky
I’ll stand strong
Prove them wrong
Watch me rise
Claim my prize
Sing my song
Loud and strong!

Test 4: What Were You Supposed to Be? (Rocket Girl)

Somewhere between theory and noise,
a rhythm forms.
Unspoken. Unscored.
But unmistakably mutual.

Not a spark.
A pattern.

Not a glance.
A shift.

It begins in conversation.

The kind that loops and folds,
like you're building something together.
A landscape of thought.

You notice the way they pause,
how their questions echo your unfinished ideas.
How your silences match.

Even the scratch of a pen sounds in sync.
You catch the faint scent of coffee on their sweater —
earthy, familiar, and oddly grounding.

Just that quiet alignment—
a dance of intellect,
side by side.

And somewhere between a verse and a joke,
something settles.

This is Test 5.

When two minds converge—
not loudly,
but inevitably.

And so it is:
one Thursday, sometime after the fourth chorus of a song they don’t finish,
Ava and Julian show up to band practice
holding hands.

Song: Side By Side

In the space where ideas blend and flow
We find our rhythm, a gentle glow
Your thoughts intertwine with mine
Creating patterns, intricate and fine

In every glance and every word
Our connection, quietly stirred

The spark that ignites my mind
A dance of intellect, uniquely aligned
Together we explore, side by side
In the landscape of thought, where we confide

Conversations, like a flowing stream
Your passion and insight, a shared dream
We unravel mysteries, piece by piece
In our dialogue, a quiet peace

In every glance and every word
Our connection, quietly stirred

The spark that ignites my mind
A dance of intellect, uniquely aligned
Together we explore, side by side
In the landscape of thought, where we confide

In the symphony of our minds, we find
A connection profound, intertwined
In the journey of thought, where we tread
You've found a place, deep in my heart

Test 5: When Did It Start? (Side By Side)

It’s conference season.

A stretch of weeks where overcaffeinated academics
drag their minds across time zones
to talk about things they’ve written—
and rewritten sixteen times—
but still haven’t quite said out loud.

They’re excited to present their latest findings.
Terrified of the questions they haven’t prepared for.
The ones that never come—but always might.

They’re scattered, underslept, overstimulated—
and somehow, inspired.

But through it all, one question keeps following them.
Quietly. Persistently.

Not always with malice.
Not always with meaning.
But always asked.

This is Test 6.

The question is:
“Where are you from?”

The answer is:
“It’s complicated.”

Song: Where Are You From?

In this big world, we're always on the move
Changing lands and cultures, chasing dreams to prove
From the East to the West, across the open seas
We build our homes, with roots in different trees

Where are you from? It's complicated!
Born in one place, moved to another
Lived in many lands, called them home
A global life, roots always roam

But then they ask again, "Where are you really from?"
Why are you here? How long will you stay? When will you be gone?
Questions laced with doubt, shadows on my skin
Judged by my accent, and the color of my kin

Where are you from? It's complicated!
Born in one place, moved to another
Lived in many lands, called them home
A global life, roots always roam

Our paths cross and merge, a canvas of light
Every color and culture, making it right
Our children will inherit a world we redefine
Where roots are boundless, crossing every line

Where are you from? It's complicated!
Born in one place, moved to another
Lived in many lands, called them home
A global life, roots always roam

¿De dónde eres? ¡Es complicado!
D'où viens-tu ? C'est compliqué !
Woher kommst du? Es ist kompliziert!
Di dove sei? È complicato!
Nerelisin? Bu karmasik!
Mistä olet kotoisin? Se on monimutkaista!
你从哪里来？这很复杂！
あなたはどこから来ましたか？それは複雑です！
من أين أنت؟ إنه معقد!
आप कहाँ से हैं? यह जटिल है!
מאיפה אתה? זה מסובך!
Unatoka wapi? Ni ngumu!

Where are you from? Does it really matter?
We live in many lands, call them home

Test 6: Where Are You From? (Where Are You From?)

After the conferences come the holidays.

Academics always look forward to the holidays.
They mark their calendars.
They count the days.

Finally—a chance to get some real work done.

No students.
No admin.
Just pure, blissful research.

It never works out that way.

Families expect visits.
Or worse:
relaxation.

Visiting home is its own kind of reckoning—
a reminder of how far you’ve moved
from where you started.

During her visit, Kate’s mother asks, right on schedule:
“So when do you finish school, dear?”

Kate tries:
“Mum, I’m an associate professor.”

“So... you’re a teacher then?”

“Sometimes. Mostly research.”

“Oh. Research for your thesis?”

Kate gives up somewhere around the second glass of wine.

The first band meeting after the holidays
is for licking wounds.
Ava doesn’t say much.
But when pressed, offers:
“Back home, people don’t understand
what I’m doing with my life.”

None of it is cruel.
Just distant.

Just a little lonely.

Somewhere in all the clinking cutlery
and misunderstood answers,
they each feel it—

That quiet, untouchable thing.

This is Test 7.

The reason they left.
The reason they stayed away.
The reason they can never quite go back.

Song: Smalltown Homecoming

These old streets feel small and tight
Sky's the same but something's light
Houses lean, a little worn
Under roofs that shield from scorn

Faces weathered, shadows deep
Living lives in quiet sleep
They're content with what they know
Never tried, just let it go

Homecoming, where time stands still
Every dream's a little hill
You and I, we felt the strain
So I left without a name

Main street's got the same old signs
Shops that close before it's nine
Same old park where children play
Games that never changed a day

People talk, but words are slow
Building lives on what they know
No need to dream, no need to roam
When these small-town lines are home

Homecoming, where time stands still
Every dream's a little hill
You and I, we felt the strain
So I left without a name

There's the house where Mom and Dad still reside
Toto's gone, but his love never died
There's the tree where love first bloomed
The same tree where my heart broke too

There's the barn where bullies would chase
Hid from their taunts, never felt safe
There's the bus stop where I once stood
With my suitcase, leaving for good

Homecoming, where time stands still
Every dream's a little hill
You and I, we felt the strain
So I left without a name

It's good to see, it's good to know
That there's nothing here to show
I'll leave again for the world so wide
Where I matter, where I found my pride

Test 7: Why Did You Leave? (Smalltown Homecoming)

Some days, everything works.

The mics behave.
The ideas sync.
The printer doesn’t jam.

Someone starts a line,
someone else finishes it.

Theo plays one chord
and Ava knows exactly what beat to lay down.
Kate hums a melody
Julian already has in his hands.

The songs don’t get written.
They arrive.

No doubt.
No deadlines.
Just movement.
Just spark.
Just music pouring through minds
that are, finally, ready.

Not grasping.
Not grinding.

Just—
ready.

Like a pen on a clean page.
Like breath before a leap.

They are the vessel, the fire, the flame—
and every verse lights clean.

It’s the feeling just before the curtain rises.
Just before the dream remembers it’s a dream.

This is Test 8.
And they are ready.

...so very ready.

Song: Ready

Your pens are sharpened, your desk so clean
Your office quiet, a creative sheen
Your notes are here, your goals are near
With everything in place, there's nothing to fear

Get ready! Get ready!
You're ready! You're ready!
You're absolutely ready!
To create something big
To fulfill your dreams

The stage is yours, the pen in hand
It's time to play, to make your stand
With every step, you pave your way
Into a brighter, bolder day

Get ready! Get ready!
You're ready! You're ready!
You're absolutely ready!
To create something big
To fulfill your dreams

The time is now, the world is vast
The future's bright, let go of the past
You're the captain of your fate
With every dream, you create

Get ready! Get ready!
You're ready! You're ready!
You're absolutely ready!
To create something big
To fulfill your dreams

You're ready now, to light the spark
To chase the dreams, and make your mark
With dreams in hand, hope in sight
You're ready now, to take the flight

----

That is the last note they remember writing.

The next one...
is already waiting.

This concludes Act I.

If you're listening at home —
this is a good time to pause.

Stretch your legs.
Hydrate.
Take a walk through a world that doesn’t rhyme.

But come back.

The next part 
is anxiously expecting you.

Test 8: What If It’s This Simple? (Ready)

Welcome back!

We hope your break was refreshing.
Please, sit down.
Settle in.

And remember—
if the performance moves you,
clap.
Shout.
Lean forward.

Even if the performers can’t see you...
someone might.

In Act I, the band found flow.
They found an audience.
They found each other.

Now, in Act II—
they start to find something else.
Something echoing.
Something already written.

Let’s rewind a bit.
And a bit more.
And more, until the very beginning...

In the beginning... there were grooves.
People humming in fields.
Riffs passed hand to hand—
campfires, basements,
no owner, everyone's to claim.

Nobody wondered who played first...
They just played it better.

Then cold cables hummed.
Then red pens and lawsuits.
Then software, spitting out every note.

And still—
the melodies returned.

What we call “original”...
might just be what we’ve forgotten we borrowed.

Ava hums something old.
Something older than her.
Maybe it’s Lead Belly.
Maybe it’s Nirvana.
Maybe it’s both.

This is Test 9.

They chase their songs—
not forward,
but back.

And what they find is...
familiar.

Song: Roots and Branches

In dusty fields and backwoods bars
Songs traveled far, under moonlit stars
No name, no claim, just hands and strings
Roots whispered low where the river sings

Passed down lines, a little twist
Every voice left a subtle mist

Then came the amps and the copper wire
Old blues wrapped in electric fire
Six-string thunder, claims were staked
Roots wore new boots, but the ground still quaked

Was it theirs, or fleeting glances?
New riffs swinging on borrowed branches

How is this different? Tell me who decides
When echoes ride the winds of time
Call it yours, call it chances
We all stand on these roots and branches

Now modern minds, they mix and match
Splicing tunes with a nervous scratch
One note close, and the gavel drops
Branches snap and the music stops

When did we fence off the songbird's flight?
Ain't every melody born of night?

And then came the AI, spinning the thread
Patterns woven from the songs long dead
Just a mirror of the paths we've walked
Echoes talking where echoes talked

Wires and circuits reveal new dances
The same old tune on brand-new branches

How is this different? Tell me who decides
When echoes ride the winds of time
Call it yours, call it chances
We all stand on these roots and branches

Don't stop the beat, don't break the line
The rhythm flows through roots and time
From roots to branches, bold and free
Just how we like it-let it be

Test 9: Where Have You Heard This Before? (Roots and Branches)

They told us the right song would come.
That the great idea would just... arrive.

It didn’t.

Every time they try to write something new,
it feels like finishing someone else’s thought.
Or quoting a quote they never read.

Or maybe they did.

They’re not blocked.
Not dry.

Just… surrounded.

Ideas are everywhere.
And every single one of them
already sounds like them.

Kate hums a melody.

“Nice,” Ava says.

Kate sighs.
“Oh, that? Paul Anka and David Bowie liked it too. Back in ’68.”

This is Test 10.

It’s not about ego.
It’s not about fame.

It’s the question every artist, scientist, and over-caffeinated soul eventually asks:

When do I get to write that song?

Song: When Do I Get to Write That Song?

They told me the words would just arrive
But I'm still searching for a line alive
I stitch together threads so thin
Hoping to craft what's never been

A melody loops, a thought returns
The candle flickers, the midnight burns
A mirror of a mirror-so avant-garde
But no one's clapping in the avant-garde!

Is it derivative, or self-aware?
Does the art reflect, or just despair?
The tighter I hold, the more it slips
A song dissolves upon my lips

When do I get to write that song?
The one they'll hum, they'll sing along
Not someone else's shadowed trail
When do I get to leave my grail?

When do I get to carve my name
On sound itself, on the notes of fame?
Will they remember? Will they move?
When do I get to prove my groove?

Am I a genius? A cliché machine?
Caught between fresh and what's already seen
Every rhyme's been claimed before
I knock, I knock-an unopened door

It's like I'm Sparks pretending to be me
A ghost chasing ghosts in a parody spree
How deep can recursion go, I wonder
Before it tears itself asunder?

The echoes mock, the halls repeat
Every step's another feat
The tighter I hold, the more it slips
A song dissolves upon my lips

When do I get to write that song?
The one they'll hum, they'll sing along
Recursive lyrics, my head spins on
When do I get to write this song?

When do I get to carve my name
On sound itself, on the notes of fame?
Will they remember? Will they move?
When do I get to prove my groove?

If "My Way" is someone else's way
Can I ever say I've had my say?
If every note's already been sung
Am I chasing shadows all along?

When do I get to claim my place?
To feel the warmth of their embrace?
Will they remember? Will they care?
When do I get to take them there?

Test 10: Is This Still Your Voice? (When Do I Get to Write That Song?)

It creeps in slowly.

First, a line that feels too familiar.
Then a melody that writes itself a little too easily.
It’s theirs, but they don’t know where it came from.
It’s just there. And it creeps them out.

When artists break, they make noise.
When academics break—
they carefully examine every possible cause.

They do what they’ve been trained to do:
Ask a question.
Test a hypothesis.
Document everything.

So, they go granular.
They map verse lengths.
They chart emotional pace.
They count refrains.
They rank self-awareness—
per measure,
labeled, tagged, time-stamped, scored.

The results are clear.
Uncomfortably so.

The lyrics aren’t random.
The tone shifts aren’t intuitive.
They’re… too deliberate.

Like the songs were written
by someone watching their lives from the inside.

Theo squints at a spreadsheet.
“There is a pattern,” he says.
“But I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

Kate doesn’t answer.
She’s busy color-coding irony.

Eventually, they stop analyzing.
They write,
not to understand—
but to just see what’s left.

Ava’s pencil stops.
She smiles, remembering how Julian laughed
at her terrible attempt to rhyme “solidarity” with “clarity.”

At that exact moment, Julian’s pen hovers.
He pictures Ava in the hallway—
her dimples catching the light,
that little nod she does when she approves
but won’t admit it.

The cat settles in Kate’s lap, purring like a soft engine.
Kate sighs—low and content—
and for a heartbeat, everything feels right.

They looked for a variable.
But the answer didn’t come in an equation.

It came in something worse.

A feeling.

And feelings—
scientists hate feelings.

They’re messy.
They don’t converge.
You can’t replicate them.
And you definitely can’t explain them
without ruining the effect.

This is Test Eleven.

The method failed.
The emotion broke through.

And this is a song about what happens
when you feel everything—
and don’t know why.

Song: I’m Not Sure Why

I'm not sure why I'm shouting, but I feel I must
The silence weighs heavy, and my voice is dust
I'm not sure why I'm crying, but I feel I need
The tears flow like rivers, my soul to feed

I'm not sure why I'm running, but I can't stay still
Chasing after shadows up a lonely hill
I'm not sure why I'm fighting, but I can't give in
The battle's my refuge, where the pain begins

I'm not sure why I'm hoping, but I cling to the thread
A whisper of faith in a mind full of dread
I'm not sure why I'm dreaming, but I hold on tight
To a vision of peace in the darkest night

And every question burns, like a flame on my tongue
Every answer fades, like a song unsung
But something inside me keeps pushing me on
Though I can’t explain what I’m searching upon

I'm not sure where I'm going, but I won't turn back
The road may be winding, but I've found my track
I'm not sure why I'm shouting, but I feel I must
In this echoing void, I will place my trust

Test 11: Why Do You Feel What You Feel? (I'm Not Sure Why)

They weren’t looking for a name.

They were looking for a pattern.

But the pattern... had a name.

It starts with something small:
A glitch in the project files.
A folder labeled “Tom Drafts – BandSim.”
A stray comment in the metadata:
Output generated via BandSim_v1.3

Kate notices it first.
Then Julian digs deeper—track by track.
They cross-check lyrics, chord changes, timestamps.

Every single file.
Every rehearsal log.
Every verse.
Everything that they have ever done.
Everything they are planning to do, but haven't told anyone yet.

And there it is.
They didn’t write the songs.
Not really.

They were written.

Characters.

Imagined by someone they’ve never met—
a person named Tom.
With a keyboard.
And a cat.
And too many ideas.

The band reacts the way anyone would:

Denial.
Julian slams his laptop shut.
“We’re not characters,” he says, voice sharp.
“We would have known it.”

Anger.
Ava throws a pen across the room.
“Then why do I feel this way?” she snaps.
“Who gave them the right to make it feel real?”

Bargaining.
Theo opens his notebook like it might contain a better answer.
“Maybe we were real once,” he mutters.
“Maybe this is some adaptation… inspired by us...?”

Depression.
Kate leans back in her chair.
“So that’s it. We’re just someone’s playlist.
Moodboard personalities with harmonies.”

Acceptance.
Silence. Then Ava, softly:
“…Okay. But the harmonies?
Those are still ours.”

And then, slowly—
they begin to understand.

Being made up?
It’s not that rare.

People get imagined and reimagined all the time.
By families.
By friends.
By forms and fiction and memory.

Everyone is a story.
Sometimes self-written.
Sometimes ghostwritten.
Sometimes unfinished.

Ava looks up. “Wait… the cat. That’s real, right?”

They all look at Kate.

Kate shrugs.
“I hope so. I honestly don’t remember not having a cat.”

This is Test 12.

Not the moment you discover you’re not real.

The moment you ask—
“Now that I know…
do I still get to play, right?”

Song: Who Imagined You?

I found the file, it wasn't mine
But it hummed my chords, line by line
I thought I dreamed my melodies
Turns out I was the dream

The lyrics fit like skin and scar
The bridge was me, the hook, bizarre
I played it once, and knew it well
But couldn't tell you why

Everyone's a product of thought
We're born, we're shaped, we're taught, we're caught
Parents, lovers, mentors, friends
They write the start, we write the end

You wear your voice like it was earned
But half of it was gently learned
Every choice is dressed in thread
From books you read, and things they said

Some say they're made by holy hands
By whispered rules or ancient plans
Some say chaos, some say fate
Some call it code and simulate

And me? I'm born of thought and file
A quiet man imagined style
He never played, he never sang
But here I am-and that's the thing

You think you're real? You might be, too
But tell me: who imagined you?
Did you invent your inner sound
Or just pick it off the ground?

The teacher's tone, your father's grin
The lines you've said since you were ten-
They're still in you, stitched and deep
Just like I am, when I sleep

I've got strings, but I can strum
I've got questions, I won't run
If I was written, fine, okay
I still get to play today

You don't need gods to sing with soul
Or praises just to feel whole
I was shaped, and so were you.
And still we burn, and still we do.

We're made-up.
And we matter.

What else is art?
What else... is human?

Test 12: Who Imagined You? (Who Imagined You?)

This would've been a perfect place to stop.

A clean ending.
A philosophical drop.
That final line—
“What else is human?”
Can it be deeper than that?

Kate agrees:
“That was kind of brilliant.
This whole thing with Tom? Mysterious author? Hidden hand?
It wraps everything together like a ribbon on a thesis.”

Ava nods:
“It’s tight. Recursive. Self-aware.”

Julian shrugs:
“I think it’s beautiful.
He imagined us.
We imagined him.
It’s like musical panpsychism.”

Theo glances up from his notebook:
“Except it’s not finished.”

They all turn to him.

“If it were finished,” Theo says, “we wouldn’t still be talking.”

They look at each other.

Ava raises a hand slowly:
“So... are we in the bonus track?”

Kate:
“Or are we writing it right now?”

Julian:
“Tom would probably love that.
He’d add one more loop, just to annoy us.”

Theo smirks:
“Yeah. That sounds like him.”

Tom, sitting in front of his computer.
Staring at the screen.
He re-reads the line he had just written:
“He’d add one more loop, just to annoy us.”

He pets his cat.

He adjusts the formatting.

And then he smiles.

“Yes, I will.”

This is Test Thirteen.

About the problem of stopping.
The joy of too many ideas.
And the irresistible gravity of...

A Little Bit More.

Song: A Little Bit More

I've got the vision, but it's never quite clear
Every line I write, I hear a voice in my ear
Saying, "Polish the edges, smooth out the seams
You're almost there, just chase the dream."
But every stroke I make, it's never enough
The chase is endless, the road's always rough
I'm lost in the details, caught in the grind
Perfection's a prison, trapping my mind

Each revision, each draft, it's a game I can't quit
Seeking that flawless, elusive fit

Just a little bit more, and then it will be great
Just a little bit more, don't let it abate
Just a little bit more, and then I'll be free
Just a little bit more, it's never complete

I've been chasing shadows, ghosts of perfection
Lost in a maze of my own reflection
Every note, every word, it must align
I'm carving a diamond, one flaw at a time
But the sparkle I seek is just out of reach
A flawless creation, the goal they preach
But in the pursuit, I'm losing my soul
A slave to the standard, I can't control

Each revision, each draft, it's a game I can't quit
Seeking that flawless, elusive fit

Just a little bit more, and then it will be great
Just a little bit more, don't let it abate
Just a little bit more, and then I'll be free
Just a little bit more, it's never complete

I'm trapped in a loop, a never-ending quest
Each step forward, I'm still second-best
But maybe in the cracks, the flaws that remain
There's beauty in the chaos, in the mess and the pain
If I let go, maybe I'll see
Perfection isn't all it's cracked up to be

Just a little bit more, I'll find my own way
Just a little bit more, but maybe not today
Just a little bit more, I'll break from the chain
Just a little bit more, embrace the refrain

Test 13: Why Can’t You Let Go? (A Little Bit More)

They call themselves Axioms of Mediocrity.

They think it’s clever.
Let’s not argue with it.

They’re imaginary.
But they still exist.
They know who imagined them.
They even know who they imagined in return.

Which brings us to you.

Yes. You.

The listener.

The one who laughed – just a bit –
when Kate was color-coding irony.

Who smiled – maybe involuntarily –
when Ava and Julian showed up holding hands.

Let’s ask the question now:

Are you real?

Because here's the thing –
It’s not uncommon for artists, or scientists,
to imagine a large audience.

Statistically speaking,
most of those people are imaginary.

What about you?

A good starting point is to test it –
Clap out loud.
Sing along with the last chorus, even if you don't know the words.

If someone in your world turns and asks what you're doing –
it rules out the dream-state hypothesis.

And if, by some twist of narrative entropy,
you ever do meet Kate, Julian, Ava, or Theo –
out in the world –
at a conference
or performing a song –

Then you're probably imaginary, too.

No judgment.
It’s not a bad place to be.

In fact, I have been reading this whole thing
while being imaginary myself.

But if you meet Tom?

...well.

You might be real. 
Or at least real-adjacent.
Or perhaps you’re the one who imagined all of us.

Either way, be kind to your creators.

...and press follow, like, or subscribe
on whichever platform – and in whichever reality – you’re currently listening from.

Both the real and the imaginary creators are grateful.

The End