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Muito bom.
It's sometime in the middle of the night. The streets of the city are deserted, save for a few poor souls seeking shelter and, of course, all the debris strewn about. We look up at a street corner and notice that we're in front of a radio station, and the lights are on inside. My friend Yuki insists we go in. I'm very tired, and it seems like as good a place to rest as any.
When we get up to the studio on the 5th or 6th floor, we find about a dozen people, maybe a few more already here. There are some chairs set up in the studio itself, and a woman sits at a grand piano. I see a guy who looks like he might work here; I ask him what's going on. "Normally you'd have to pay, but a bunch of people didn't show up, so go on in," he says. Yuki and I go in and take a seat.
After a few moments, the woman at the piano speaks: "Welcome to our regular live broadcast of Midnight Sky Garden. With everything going on, we had decided to cancel tonight's performance, but then we saw the number of people who showed up anyway--people who, despite the danger outside, made the trek to our studio tonight to see me play. And we thought about it, and we thought that maybe, with all the anxiety and fear and uncertainty in our lives right now, the best thing we could do is let the show go on, give all of you out there a moment of respite in these trying times. So without further ado..."
She begins to play. It's sweet, slow, lovely. The other audience members are enraptured. I--as in Me, not the Me I am playing in this video game--start to cry, and I don't know why. But then...maybe I do know. After all, these are trying times in the real world too, aren't they? Can I really be blamed for finding resonance in the notion of people putting themselves in extreme danger to seek out some fleeting semblance of normalcy and comfort? Or that someone else is willing to put their own selves at risk to provide that comfort? Well. In any event, I sit, and the video game Me sits, and I and Yuki and the sparse studio audience and the woman at the piano share this sweet, sad, quiet moment, not thinking about anything else, in this tiny studio, in the middle of the night, somewhere in the world.
And then an Eva unit cuts the building in half.
When we get up to the studio on the 5th or 6th floor, we find about a dozen people, maybe a few more already here. There are some chairs set up in the studio itself, and a woman sits at a grand piano. I see a guy who looks like he might work here; I ask him what's going on. "Normally you'd have to pay, but a bunch of people didn't show up, so go on in," he says. Yuki and I go in and take a seat.
After a few moments, the woman at the piano speaks: "Welcome to our regular live broadcast of Midnight Sky Garden. With everything going on, we had decided to cancel tonight's performance, but then we saw the number of people who showed up anyway--people who, despite the danger outside, made the trek to our studio tonight to see me play. And we thought about it, and we thought that maybe, with all the anxiety and fear and uncertainty in our lives right now, the best thing we could do is let the show go on, give all of you out there a moment of respite in these trying times. So without further ado..."
She begins to play. It's sweet, slow, lovely. The other audience members are enraptured. I--as in Me, not the Me I am playing in this video game--start to cry, and I don't know why. But then...maybe I do know. After all, these are trying times in the real world too, aren't they? Can I really be blamed for finding resonance in the notion of people putting themselves in extreme danger to seek out some fleeting semblance of normalcy and comfort? Or that someone else is willing to put their own selves at risk to provide that comfort? Well. In any event, I sit, and the video game Me sits, and I and Yuki and the sparse studio audience and the woman at the piano share this sweet, sad, quiet moment, not thinking about anything else, in this tiny studio, in the middle of the night, somewhere in the world.
And then an Eva unit cuts the building in half.