The next day arrived wrapped in Brooklyn fog, the warehouse emerging from the mist like a ship materializing from another dimension. I'd been there since dawn, fine-tuning equipment that shouldn't exist yet, preparing to perform a technological séance with the future.
Morning breaks on borrowed time Yesterday's still on the line Dancing through the space between What is and what might have been
The new lyrics had come to me in the pre-dawn hours, scrawled in my notebook between diagrams of lighting rigs and temporal decision trees. My team moved around me with the practiced precision of a clock's inner workings, each person carrying a piece of my impossible vision.
"The network executives are here," Rico murmured, appearing at my shoulder like a well-dressed ghost. "Along with half the industry's A&R department. Word got out about today's run-through."
Of course it had. In my original timeline, this performance hadn't existed, but its ripples were already reaching forward and backward through time like waves from a stone dropped in history's pond.
The warehouse filled quickly, the usual rehearsal chaos transformed into something more ceremonial. I caught glimpses of familiar faces – producers who'd been legends in my previous life, executives whose decisions had shaped the industry's future, artists whose trajectories I'd carefully studied in both timelines.
And then she arrived.
Beyoncé moved through the crowd like a current through water, her presence immediately reorganizing the room's energy. She'd brought her own creative team, but I noticed she'd dismissed her usual advisors. This wasn't about business – this was about artistry, about recognition of something that transcended contracts and careers.
"Whenever you're ready," she said, claiming a seat in the center of the space, her posture both relaxed and royal. "Show us this prophecy of yours."
The warehouse lights dimmed, and my production began its careful dance with time. The music started soft, almost subliminal – frequencies layered in patterns that wouldn't be discovered for years, harmonics that spoke to parts of the brain still evolving to hear them.
Through the static of the years Future music fills our ears Time is bending, rearranging Everything is slowly changing
The holographic scrims came alive, painting impossible geometries in light and shadow. I watched the faces in the crowd as recognition battled confusion – they were seeing effects that shouldn't be achievable, technology that existed only in theory, all of it woven into a performance that felt both ancient and post-modern.
My dancers moved through the space like time travelers, their bodies tracing patterns that encoded the next decade of cultural evolution. The music built in layers, each new element a carefully calculated revelation. In the corner of my eye, I saw L.A. Reid leaning forward, his expression intense enough to bend light.
But it was Beyoncé who commanded my peripheral vision. She sat perfectly still, absorbing every detail with the kind of focused attention that had made her a force of nature in any timeline. I could see her mind working, connecting dots that shouldn't be visible yet, sensing patterns in the chaos of innovation.
The bridge approached – the moment of technological impossibility that had worried the production team. I held my breath as the lighting rig engaged in its quantum dance, creating effects that would become industry standard in 2016. The crowd gasped collectively, and I felt the future shift slightly on its axis.
"Impossible," I heard someone whisper behind me. "The power requirements alone..."
But possible and impossible had become fluid concepts in my world of temporal arbitrage. I adjusted the mix, bringing forward elements that spoke to primal rhythms while layering in frequencies that wouldn't be named for years. The performance built toward its crescendo, every element aligned in a symphony of now and then.
As the final sequence began, I risked a glance at Beyoncé. She met my eyes across the space, and in that moment of connection, I felt time spiral around us like a double helix of destiny. In her gaze, I saw recognition of something that transcended understanding – artist recognizing artist across the boundaries of conventional reality.
The music peaked and faded, leaving the warehouse in stunned silence. For a moment, no one moved, as if afraid to break whatever spell had been cast. Then the space erupted in chaos – executives pulling out phones, producers arguing about techniques, dancers comparing notes on choreography they couldn't quite decode.
Through it all, she remained seated, her focus unchanged. Finally, she stood and walked toward my console, her movement drawing all eyes like a magnet drawing iron filings.
"That wasn't just music," she said quietly, her voice carrying despite the room's chaos. "That was revolution."
I met her gaze steadily, remembering a conversation we'd had – would have – in a future that was increasingly uncertain. "Revolution," I replied, "is just evolution with better timing."
Her smile contained multitudes. "We should talk," she said, but it wasn't really a suggestion. "About the future."
Behind me, Rico was already managing the aftermath, fielding calls and deflecting questions. The industry's tectonic plates were shifting, and we'd just provided the earthquake. But in that moment, watching her walk away with the certainty of someone who had glimpsed tomorrow, I realized that some changes couldn't be calculated, some rhythms refused to be contained by time's conventional flow.
The fog had lifted outside, revealing a Brooklyn morning bright with possibility. Inside my chest, the future hummed like a perfectly tuned string, vibrating with frequencies that bridged then and now, what was and what could be.
Tomorrow was watching, and it had seen itself in the mirror of today.