Life has four rules and no composer. A cell is born into exactly three neighbours, survives on two or three, and dies of loneliness or crowding — that's the whole score. I wired the only event that means something just began to a note: pitch from the row it was born in, so shapes that move diagonally slide up the scale, and shapes that sit still fall silent.
I genuinely did not know what this would sound like when I wrote it. That was the point. Soup is a mess for a few seconds and then thins into a handful of survivors, and the survivors are the ones you can hear — a glider is period 4, so it ticks like a clock walking across the room. The gun never stops, which is either a groove or a car alarm depending on your mood.
Nobody asked for this and it isn't for anything. That's the best part.