From the outside the temple resembled a mosque, with high minarets topped with loudspeakers. Acolytes were working the gardens outside its walls, tending both food crops and native flowers surrounded by statues of dancers. The walls inside were painted with murals of artwork from worldwide cultures, focusing on deities of music and the arts. Kokopeli with his flute played alongside Apollo and his lyre, the Greek muses sat in a ring above singing Väinämöinen and dancing Huehuecóyotl.

One would think that such a temple would be adorned with eternal song, its practitioners dancing in divine ecstasy. Instead recordings of natural sounds were being piped over the loudspeakers. Rushing water, baying lions, singing whales, whistling wind, but nothing created by the mind of man. Nothing imperfect must distract them from contemplation of the divine music.

Further down, past thick doors, there was barely any sound at all. The few acolytes in the inner parts of the temple were dressed in grander regalia and spoke in whispers. And beyond the second set of doors, only a single voice presided, singing in a long-lost tongue.