One day recently, the Robot Alien Prophet sent me these audio files and asked me to upload them "somewhere." 

That kind of thing is typical of our relationship, and of the R.A.P. generally.  As is well known, the R.A.P. grew up on a spaceship, with scavenged electronics for toys, NASA engineers as tutors and friends, and an abbreviated version of the internet as the only window into our world.  There's a surprising mix, in our conversations, of exquisite and detailed knowledge about some things, and an extraordinary ignorance about the mechanics of many aspects of everyday living.

"You could upload them yourself," I suggested.  "There's Bandcamp, for instance.  You just need an email address."  I received no response.

I listened to the files.  Then I emailed back to suggest lunch.

"What is this about?" I asked the R.A.P.  

"Capitalism."

"Try harder," I said.

"Standing still when your body tells you you should run.  What we all learn in childhood and do through our adult lives."

"You had anything but a typical childhood," I said.  "And you've never had a job."

"I feel things," said the R.A.P.  "This is... what is."

This is what the R.A.P. falls back on: I'm-a-prophet-there-is-no-further-explanation.

We focused on lunch.  I had the eggs.