Every point of light is drawn from the room's real catalogue — 2,000 of them, each standing for about seven tracks. A crowd, for now. Keep going.

Thirteen decades. The 1970s tower holds 1,739 tracks — but the right edge is the tell: over 6,872 from 2010 on. This is a living collection, not a museum.

Nine families — jazz the largest at 2,082 — and then the signature: 9,063 tracks that fit no bucket at all. City pop beside qawwali beside library records. The unlabeled cloud is the point.

Every track is placed by hand on four dials. Two of them: mood, left sad to right joyful, against energy, low calm to high frantic. Warm light is body music; cool light is head music. The room lives up and to the right — warm, moving, alive.

1,316 tracks — 8.3% — have never actually been listened to. They arrived carrying their genre's default setting, and every one of them lands on the same single point. Watch them gather. They are held off the maps until somebody listens, because a placeholder is not a placement.

The unheard step aside, and the stars come out: 91 of the top-100 records, each exactly where it feels. The other nine wait for their dials to be set. Counted, mapped, and open about what it hasn't heard — that's the room.