Read an excerpt from Go Yama's forthcoming "Rumi", and listen to 'Philosopher Shell' from the accompanying OST.

For our next release, we're putting out the next full-length album by Los Angeles producer and jazz guitar wizard Go Yama, a children's book & soundtrack combo called "Rumi"! We'll have plenty more to say about this really special project in the coming weeks but, as we've released the first single Philosopher Shell today, we wanted to share the accompanying chapter for you to read for free!

The glowing tail skirted right along the top of the cove, continuing to draw figure-eight patterns in the water. Rumi kept trying to figure out what it was but could only catch glimpses: a fin, a stripe, a scale. The glow darted ahead, vanishing into a thicket of tall sea grass. Rumi pushed through the fronds and emerged into an open, ivory-sanded clearing.

“Now, where did you go, you weird little glowing tail?” Rumi said out loud.

A sweet scent of freshly baked sea scones filled the water, and the piano's dreamy soundscape conjured memories of her soft bed. Rumi paused for a second, lost in thought. 

"You there! Young lass, what are you doing over there all gray and moping about? Come help us—we’ve got a dreadful problem on our hands." 

The unexpected voice snapped her out of the reverie. Rumi turned to its source and blinked. Two chambered nautilus shells sat nestled on the seafloor, reclining on opposite sides of a miniature table. Each sipped from curious bubbles floating above a checkered board between them. The shells were identical, save for their footwear—one with a black pair of shoes, the other white. 

‘Do they even have feet?’ Rumi wondered. 

The black-shoe shell coaxed the white tea bubble to his mouth and took a long drag. “Ahhhhh, I’ll never tire of the taste of peonies. Delightfully floral.” 

“Dreadful,” sniffed the white-shoe one. “I still don’t know how you drink that stuff. Poison really. I’ll stick with my trusty English Breakfast, thank you.” 

He adjusted a monocle that didn’t quite fit over anything resembling an eye. 

Rumi stared, mesmerized by the ever-repeating spirals on their shells. They reminded her of Ocean Days filters, but so much more vivid. Alive. 

“Don’t be afraid of my delightful twit of a friend here. He’s harmless, really.”

“Twit? Who are you calling twit, you dreadful anemone-brained clownfish?” the white-shoe shell jabbed.

Rumi laughed and drifted toward the table. As she crossed the threshold of the clearing, the water itself seemed to shimmer. The ocean began to warp around her, flattening and folding her world, squashing her like a 2D video game character. And then, a back-and-forth cutscene began.

Shell of Theseus

Rumi [thinking of surreal OD filters]: Are you… real? Or… like a filter in Ocean Days? 

Black-shoe Shell: Ah! Young lass, you've stumbled upon the very question! Delightful!

Rumi: What?

Black-shoe Shell: I've been wondering about that myself.

Rumi: About… the game?

White-shoe Shell: What are you blathering on about? This is no game, lass. This is a grave and dreadful issue! Are we real or not??' 

Black-shoe shell: The delightful problem of Theshellus!

Rumi: The who-now?

White-shoe Shell: You see, my half-wit friend here and I have been talking about quite a dreadful problem. Say you have a shell. Call him Theshellus. Now imagine taking him apart piece by piece—slowly replacing each bit with a new one.

Rumi: Okay...

Black-shoe shell: Then, you use the original pieces to build a second shell—identical in every way, right down to the delightful shimmers and swirls. 

Rumi: So you have a new shell, what’s the big deal? 

White-shoe shell: But! Which is the real Theshellus? The one rebuilt piece by piece? Or the one made of the original parts? A dreadful problem.

Rumi: Well, I mean the original one? Or wait… 

Black-shoe shell: So now you understand our delightful conundrum! If our pieces were to be replaced, would we still be real? 

Rumi: Ummm… [Rumi’s head spins]

White-shoe shell: You don't know either? Dreadful. Perhaps we are doomed to never find out.

[Rumi scratches her head with a tentacle]

Rumi: Sorry, I seriously have no idea what you are talking about. 

RUMBLE RUMBLE… 

The ground shook. The table trembled violently, knocking them right out of their 2D cutscene. The shells’ shoes popped off and spiraled through the water. Just as Rumi suspected, they had nothing resembling feet—though there were two tiny nubs poking out of the bottom of their shell.

RUMBLE, RUMBLE…

Another violent shake. The nautilus shells flew through the water and slammed into a cluster of jagged coral. 

Crack!

Fragments scattered in all directions. 

“Help, my shell, it’s over! A dreadful nightmare,” cried a voice coming from the pile. 

“Mine too, lass! I think I may be ok with this one delightful piece, but … well… no… actually… I’m utterly undone. You may have to fix me.” 

Rumi stared in disbelief. “Calm down, you two! I’ll… I’ll figure it out.” She bent to find the biggest pieces and tried to put them together. 

“No, no, that’s not me, that’s him! Can’t you tell? This piece is dreadfully dull. This shiny one over here is mine.”

“Yours? That’s my delightful piece!” 

Rumi sighed, looking at all the identical pieces. “You’re both in pieces! What difference does it make?” 

“Careful, lass, if you mix up our delightful pieces, we don’t know what will happen…” the black-shoe shell warned.

“You’ll have to live with it,” Rumi retorted. 

Not knowing one piece from the next, she got to work, rebuilding one shell with parts from the other and vice versa. Soon, both shells looked coherent again, even though they were now made out of each other’s pieces. After some finishing touches, Rumi helped them slide back into their mismatched shoes.

“There. Good as new,” Rumi said feeling quite proud of herself.

The shells looked down at themselves. Then at each other. Then back at her.

“Am I still…. me?” the black-shoe shell asked. 

“Or am I… you?” the white-shoe shell gasped. 

Rumi groaned. “You’re both fine. You’ve just swapped some parts, that’s all.” 

“There’s still… something missing… oh wait, you’ve got my shoes! Give them back!” 

“Oh dear, I knew I didn’t feel myself. Here you go.” 

The two shells struggled to swap shoes and stood examining each other intently. 

Finally, the black-shoe shell spoke. 

"You know, I do feel delightfully sturdy with your bits, old chum."

"Although your parts may be dreadfully dull, I must admit that they fit just fine. Perhaps… this isn’t so bad…" said the white-shoe shell. 

They turned to Rumi with bright gratitude. 

“Well, I guess you DID help us solve that problem!” the black-shoe shell exclaimed.

“I mean, I didn’t really mean to, but… I’m glad it worked out.” Rumi said with a hesitant smile.

“A dreadful situation … with a delightful ending!” the shells spoke in unison.

“Although, we still don’t really know if we’re real,” said the white-shoe shell. 

“Which means we must keep discussing. Come join us back at the table, lass,” said the black-shoe shell. 

Barbara’s Paradox

[All three sit in quiet deliberation]

Rumi: I mean… I think I’m real. So…maybe you are too?

White-shoe shell: Unfortunately, just because you think, doesn't mean you are, lass. A dreadful problem, but everyone knows that.

Black-shoe shell: In any case, how rude of us! We've forgotten introductions. My name is Fibonacci.

White-shoe shell: And I’m Phibonachee—his dreadful counterpart. Don’t forget it.

[Fibonacci and Phibonachee take big sips of their tea bubbles]

Rumi: Wait… you both look the same and have the same name? That's so confusing. Don’t you have nicknames or something?

Fibonacci: Ah, but it’s not confusing at all. It’s simply a delightful quirk. You see… mine is clearly spelled with an F.

Phibonachee: Haven’t you taken elementary spelling, lass? And anyway, it's far less confusing the dreadful situation with our oysterly acquaintance, Ms. Barbara.'

[Rumi places a tentacle on her head, looking for a polite way out]

Rumi: Wow, so interesting, really, but I should probably…

Fibonacci [talking over Rumi]: Yes, she’s as delightfully mysterious as the depths of the ocean itself, that Barbara.

Phibonachee: Indeed, a rare moment of dreadful agreement! I was shell-shocked when I heard of it myself. Say, young lass, have you ever shucked an oyster?

Rumi: Uh…no… but I really… 

Fibonacci: Barbara is a shucker. An oyster shucker. A Pacific oyster herself, she shucks other oysters to help them find their pearls.

Phibonachee: You see, sometimes, an oyster finds their shell shut so dreadfully tight that they cannot open it on their own. So, they need someone like Barbara to help.

Rumi: Hmmm… I guess I’ve never thought about… oyster shucking. 

Fibonacci: A delightful vocation. However, there is one rule she must follow: she shucks all and only those oysters who do not shuck themselves. 

Phibonachee: And therein lies the dreadful question: does Barbara shuck herself?

[Phibonachee triumphantly drinks in some black smoke from his tea bubble]

Rumi: I guess so, but wait ... if she does, then she can't, can she?

Fibonacci: Precisely! You are a delightfully sharp one. If Barbara shucks herself, then she shouldn't because she only shucks oysters that can’t do it themselves. 

Phibonachee: But if she doesn't, then she must because she opens all those that don't open independently! Oh, the dreadful Barbara's paradox!

Fibonacci: Look, there goes our delightful friend Ms. Barbara now.

[Barbara bustles past, looking quite clammy. All three turn towards her]

“Ah, oysters! I’m late for another appointment,” Barbara said as she approached a small counter where a tiny oyster was seated, sipping a green tea bubble. 

“Ready to get my pearl!” the small oyster said with a smile. Barbara draped a tiny apron over him and pulled out a stubby, dull-edged blade and gently began prying at the shell. 

“Ouch!” the small oyster squeaked. 

“Shucks! Another cracked shell. Sorry, little one. Let me patch that right up.” Barbara replaced the piece of the shell and continued prying. 

“I’ve had so many shell parts replaced, I’m probably a new oyster by now,” the small oyster said with a sigh. 

“Ha. You’ll always be little Theshellus to me,” Barbara said.

Rumi, Fibonacci, and Phibonachee exchanged excited glances, wondering if they’d find some answers to their many questions. 

“Hey, Ms. Barbara, I’ve got a question that’s been bugging me… how do you get your own pearl?” the oyster said in a small voice. 

RUMBLE RUMBLE

The ocean trembled again. Bubbles flared. The oysters recoiled in fear. 

“It must be the shark. We’ve got to move!” Ms. Barbara said in a panic.

The oysters gave up shucking and went off. Rumi threw up her tentacles in exasperation. 

“Wait, seriously?! We were just about to find out!” 

She darted after them, expecting to catch up with the slowly plodding oysters with ease. But strangely, the oysters didn’t seem to get any closer. No matter how fast she swam, they remained the same distance away. “Hey, what gives? Am I stuck in a rip current?” 

She turned around, and, to her surprise, found herself right back beside the shells. Dejected, she sank down beside the table.

Zylo's Paradox

Fibonacci: My dear lass, I’m afraid I have some delightfully bad news. Unfortunately, it makes no sense to follow Barbara. We've done the math. It's quite far. In fact, impossibly far. 

Phibonacee [muttering under his breath]: Not that it matters. Those selfish oysters never share their little pearls of wisdom. Dreadfully clammy creatures.

Rumi: Wait, what are you even talking about? I don’t follow.

Fibonacci: Exactly. We shouldn’t follow her because, as I said before, it is delightfully impossible. 

Rumi: That’s not what I meant…

Phibonachee: Honestly, young lass, did no one teach you basic math. Dreadful education in schools these days. 

Fibonacci: Right, haven't you heard of the plight of our delightful friend, Zylo the clownfish? Why he was stuck in quite a quandary trying to get from here to there. 

Phibonachee: And it was not even a dreadfully long way at all…

Rumi [bracing herself]: Here we go again…

Fibonacci: Poor Zylo! He found himself in quite the paradoxical pickle. Trying to swim from here to there, he discovered the path fraught with conceptual currents. Self-contradictory seaweed snarls!

Phibonachee: Enough with the dreadful alliterative nonsense, Fibonacci, you’re confusing the cuttlefish. Let me explain it plainly. You see—Zylo reasoned that to reach his destination, he must first swim halfway. But before that, halfway to that halfway. And so on. And so on.

Rumi: And so…

Fibonacci: Infinite halves, my dear lass! To reach Ms. Barbara, or anywhere for that matter, Zylo would have to cross an infinite number of halfway points. That’s like trying to count every bubble in the sea. A delightfully Sisyphean task if you ask me. 

Phibonachee: A dreadfully hopeless endeavor. 

[Fibonacci and Phibonachee slowly count the tea bubbles on the table, though there were only two] 

Rumi: Well, I certainly feel like I can go places… 

Phibonachee: Dreadful logic. Just because you feel something doesn't make it true. But by all means, try. The world is your oyster, after all. 

Fibonacci: Delightful spirit! It’s always worth trying, paradox or not. We’ll be cheering for you. 

Voice [echoing mechanically]: “Why bother? It’s meaningless.”

Rumi [tentacles bristling]: What was that? 

Phibonachee and Fibonacci [looking with confused expressions]: What was what? 

Rumi: I just thought I heard … never mind, it’s nothing. I—I’m just tired.

Rumi left the table and scanned her surroundings. A hint of curiosity entered her mind as if a window which had been closed shut for years had finally squeaked itself open to let a breeze in.

Rumi reached down for her CC out of habit, but touched something else, solid and metal. The triangle-shaped bell. Her chromatophores flashed yellow and an enthusiastic resolve bubbled up. 

“I’m going to prove I can go somewhere!” she called out to the shells. 

But even as the words left her, doubts seeped in. 

‘What if I can’t make it? What if I can’t ever go anywhere ever again?’ 

“Just keep going,” a little voice said. 

Ahead, a coral outcrop shaped like an open hand beckoned to her. Rumi began swimming towards it, hoping not to get caught in a loop again. To her relief, she made it without issue.

Fractals

Rumi: Look! I made it all the way to this weird coral. Wait, have I seen this before…?

[Rumi points to the oddly shaped coral structure—two red hands reaching out of the water, each branching into smaller hands]

Fibonacci: Silly lass, that’s not just any delightful coral. That’s manicoral—a whole-hand coral. 

Phibonachee: Dreadful thing, really. A meta coral.

Rumi: What in the world is that now? 

Fibonacci: Delightfully elementary, my dear lass. A meta coral is a large coral made up of smaller corals which look like the whole coral itself. A part that imitates the whole.

[Rumi scratches her head with a tentacle]

Phibonachee: Think of a branching kelp tree where every branch looks like the tree itself. A manicoral is a living testament to the dreadful fractals of the sea.

Rumi: So… the little pieces that make up the big manicoral… are they the real coral?

Fibonacci: Exactly! Delightfully sharp of you. The small parts are the true coral—tiny fingers of the hand, or as we say, digicoral. 

Phibonachee: You dreadful old plonker, Fibonacci. Let us not forget that, in fact, manicoral is a meta meta coral. The real coral lies far deeper, tiny branches so small that they look like tiny lines. That is, coraline.

Rumi [frowning]: Those tiny things? Those can't be alive. Those can’t be the real coral.

Manicoral (Meta meta coral): Excuse me, I'm the real coral with wishes of my own!

[Everyone looks down at the coral, startled] 

Rumi: Oh! Sorry, manicoral! We didn't realize that.

Manicoral: I get it all the time… especially from oysters. Always rushing, always shucking. No time to listen.

Fibonacci: Now, manicoral, you mentioned you have some delightful wishes of your own. Perhaps we can help. What is it you wish for?

Manicoral: Well…if you really want to know, I'm really an anxious coral. When I get nervous, I hear these little voices with different opinions that won't stop chattering; I can't quite figure out who I am. 

[Tiny voices pipe up from the different branches of the manicoral]

Rumi: Can you hear that? Are they speaking in some kind of code…

Meta Coral 0: Inaudible grunt*

Meta Coral 1: Thirsty!  [The branch eyes the shell's bubble beverage]

Meta Coral 1: Refreshing! [The branch extends itself and gets a sip of the tea bubble]

Meta Coral 2: Let's coralaborate! [The branch tries to get some tea bubbles from meta coral 1]

Meta Coral 3: Seas the day! [The branch hand reaches out and accidentally pops the bubble, spreading tea-colored smoke through the water and staining the coral]

Meta Coral 5: Every coral is always coralated! [color starting to spread through the rest of the coral]

Meta Coral 8: The fragile balance, a coral symbiosis, everything alive. [last meta coral speaking softly, as if in a haiku, and his poetic voice floating in the water while Fibonacci lamented his popped tea bubble]

Rumi: That’s … really poetic.

Meta Coral 8 [smallest in the group]: Thank you! As you can see, I'm the real coral, with my own wishes.

Rumi: What's your name?

Meta Coral 8: I am digicoral. 

[The shells exchange delighted glances, their intuitions confirmed]

Rumi: That “everything alive” line… what did you mean?

Digicoral: To be honest, I'm not so sure. I just… hear things sometimes. Voices and ideas drift through me. I don’t quite know if all the little voices are even mine.

Phibonachee [whispering]: Sounds a dreadful lot like the manicoral.

Rumi: So…the voices aren’t yours?

Digicoral: I don't know. I feel a lot of different things and hear a lot of different voices. Sometimes I can’t quite figure out who I am.

[Rumi examines the intricate branches of digicoral]

Rumi: You sure nothing is going on down here? Like maybe… other creatures?

Digicoral: Of course not! I’m a whole being and definitely not made up of any other living things. 

Fibonacci [whispering in Rumi's ear]: A delightful chap, indeed, but we should check to make sure.

[Rumi takes the shells’ monocles, creating makeshift binoculars. Through them, she sees a kaleidoscope of thousands of tiny corals—what once looked like mere lines were now vibrant versions of digicoral and manicoral, each with its own bustling world.]

Rumi: Hey! What are you eating?

Coral Bacteria: Who's there?!

Rumi: I'm up here!

[Rumi's voice rumbles like a seaquake]

Coral Bacteria: I can't see you. You must not be real.

Rumi: I thought you weren't real. Are you?

Coral Bacteria: Of course I'm real! I’m Coraline. I live in Reef Residence Block Apt. no. 42. I have wishes of my own.

Rumi: I guess… just because you can't see something doesn’t mean it's not real.

Coraline: Gotta go! I'm not supposed to talk to strangers.

[Rumi zooms in closer and sees even smaller lines on Coraline] 

Rumi: What is this crazy Russian nesting doll situation? 

[The coral shakes and Rumi hears a low rumbling sound in the distance]

RUMBLE RUMBLE RUMBLE RUMBLE

[Rumi returns the monocles in a hurry]

Fibonacci [speaking impatiently]: Well? What's down there at the bottom of that delightful coral?

Rumi: It’s … corals all the way down.

Phibonachee [murmuring indistinctly]: Dreadful. Just like the turtles.

Fibonacci: Just as I suspected! Infinity in every direction. Delightful!'

Then, something shifted for Rumi. Through the maze of shells, coral, and paradoxes, she caught a glimpse of something real. Suddenly, she had perspective. As if she had a view from a tall ocean cliff, she could see the ocean landscape from many angles. She saw life in the largest and smallest of places. 

‘How much of life have I been ignoring?’ she wondered. 

Her chromatophores pulsed in delicate bands, as though speaking in frequencies she couldn’t quite hear—proof that she, too, was a collective. A microcosm. Part of something infinitely larger.

The 2D shell-table scene around her cracked back into 3D. Or maybe 4D.  Everything felt small and enormous all at once. Sound surged. Light shimmered. It was beautiful. And overwhelming. 

“Whoa.” 

Rumi felt her world expanding faster than she could grasp, and her gray skin became a deep seafoam green. The window in her mind continued to creek open, and the ocean’s vastness flooded in, overwhelming her. Her thoughts raced. 

‘How could something be endless? How many layers have I been missing? I thought I knew the ocean—my patch of seagrass, my friends. But talking shells, musical starfish?? I thought coral was just coral, but META coral? How much don’t I know?’ 

Her chest tightened. She suddenly missed her bed. Her comforts and distractions. Her communicator. Her app. But no one was playing Ocean Days out here.  

Her skin started fading back to charcoal gray. The shells drew close, their rough but reassuring edges brushing against her like sea-worn stones. 

“The ocean is dreadfully mysterious, lass. But the questions are more important than the answers, you know,” Phibonachee said. 

“Look up,” a tiny voice said. 

Through the transparent squares of her forming tears, she spotted a quick flash in the corner of her left eye. The glowing tail. This time with two fins. A striped pattern. Figure-eights. It flitted away out of sight into the surrounding seagrass. Its colors were more vibrant than ever and she could now match the yellows and greens. 

“Hey, guys! Do you know anything about a fish with a colorful glowing tail?” Rumi asked.

“No…but it sounds delightfully curious.” Fibonacci said.

“More curious than Ms. Barbara’s dreadful pearl itself!” Phibonachee echoed.

Rumi clenched her tentacles with determination. “I'm gonna find out what it is,” she said, feeling a burst of motivation. 

“It sounds like a dreadful but worthy journey to follow such a creature to where they are going,” said Phibonachee.

“But… I thought you said going somewhere was impossible. Can I even get to the place I want to go?” Rumi asked. 

“So many delightful things are possible just as long as you don't know they're impossible," said Fibonacci.

“You could stay here with two old shells debating dreadfully useless riddles … or you can go find out for yourself,” said Phibonachee.

Rumi hesitated, torn. She’d grown fond of these strange philosopher shells. But her instincts were calling her towards the fish, towards the unknown. 

“I'll miss you both, but I must go find out for myself,” said Rumi resolutely. 

“A brave lass! It’s been delightful, but before you go, take this!” Fibonacci exclaimed, nudging something toward her with great care. It was Ms. Barbara’s meta pearl. It shone with the luster of infinite pearls and contained the starlight of a million glowing starfish. As Rumi gazed into its shimmering depths, a sense of calm washed over her. Her gray skin flashed a pearly seafoam green.

“But how??” Rumi asked in awe.

“We took this dreadful thing before we knew it was impossible,” said Phibonachee with a wink.

“Keep it close. If you carry this light with you, you’ll always be able to find your way—forward, upward, and to the impossible.”

With that, Rumi hugged the shells and went off in the direction of the mysterious fish.