The knotted pipes were his only friends on that miniscule planet; murmuring, coughing and sometimes screaming. Having learnt their language, he would reply with twists and turns of his wrench. Then, instead of a great belching cacophony, they would sing. Sing with cavernous voices about times before brass tubes and greased tools. Listening, he often looked out across the vast sea of night and thought of all the other possible people on their own little worlds. He mused how none of them would ever hear these songs. Slowly, a smile cut across his face.