A departure suggests a door.

It was not called dismissal.

Dismissal suggests a hand.

It was not called a quarrel.

Quarrels are for houses whose corridors are too short.

The matter was placed, instead, beneath the pines.

Within the Palace grounds, where gravel does not hurry and water is permitted to answer only by being still, representatives of the concerned houses assembled under a sky of appropriate gray. No notice was given to the public. No notice was needed. When a branch has bent too far from its trunk, the garden already knows.

Konami arrived with sleeves full of absence.

Sony arrived with empty hands.

Kojima Hideo arrived with no emblem.

This was sufficient.

The chamberlain bowed.

Chamberlain: The morning has produced a certain mist. His Majesty has consented to observe whether the stones remain visible.

The Konami men bowed.

Sony bowed.

Kojima bowed last and lowest, though not to the same thing.

The Emperor sat before them, calm as a calendar before history has written on it. His tea rested untouched. A single folded paper lay near his hand. No one knew whether it contained notes, a poem, or nothing. All three possibilities were binding.

Emperor: We are told that a long corridor has become narrow.

Konami: The house has measured the corridor with care.

Kojima: The traveler regrets the inconvenience of his shadow.

Sony: A shadow, when properly received, may indicate the direction of light.

No one looked at Sony.

This was how Sony was acknowledged.

A servant adjusted the charcoal. It had not needed adjusting.

Emperor: A name may sleep in one storehouse. A voice may wake elsewhere.

Konami bowed to the first half.

Kojima bowed to the second.

Sony bowed to the space between them.

Konami: Storehouses exist to prevent rain from reaching old armor.

Kojima: Armor sometimes remembers the body.

Konami: Memory is not always an asset.

Kojima: Nor is an asset always alive.

The chamberlain’s fan closed.

That was enough.

No rebuke was spoken. The fan had done the work.

From beyond the screen came the sound of a bird deciding not to sing.

Emperor: The old field has banners. The new road has no banners yet.

Sony lowered its head.

Sony: Roads without banners are often easier to maintain.

Konami: Provided no old banners are carried upon them.

Sony: Naturally.

The word had no owner.

It moved across the room like incense.

Kojima’s hands remained still.

Kojima: A man walking after rain may carry only what has not dissolved.

Konami accepted this with the expression of a house calculating humidity.

The chamberlain spoke again.

Chamberlain: It is unfortunate when a lantern has burned so brightly that the room begins to resent the flame.

No one disagreed.

To disagree would be to name the flame.

To agree would be to confess the resentment.

The Emperor looked toward the garden.

Emperor: The flame does not own the room. The room does not own the darkness. Yet guests remember where they first saw.

Konami bowed.

Sony bowed.

Kojima did not move for one breath, then bowed more deeply than before.

This was almost gratitude.

It was also almost accusation.

The Emperor lifted the cup, but did not drink.

Emperor: Konami.

Konami: Majesty.

Emperor: Keep the storehouse dry.

Konami: We receive the rain.

No one corrected the sentence.

Emperor: Kojima.

Kojima: Majesty.

Emperor: Walk where the road permits walking.

Kojima: I will avoid stepping on names.

Konami heard this.

Sony heard this.

The court heard what had not been promised.

Emperor: Sony.

Sony bowed.

Emperor: If an umbrella is opened, do not call it weather.

Sony held the bow.

Sony: The distinction is understood.

There, then.

No patronage had been offered.

No sponsorship had been implied.

No platform had extended a hand.

No studio had been imagined.

No future trailer had already begun to exist.

And yet the umbrella was now in the room.

The chamberlain announced the end of the audience with a sentence so indirect that even the clerks would later disagree on whether anything had concluded.

The parties rose.

Konami gathered its papers, which were still thin.

Sony gathered nothing, which was still everything.

Kojima bowed once to the court, once to the old house, once to the road not yet named.

Outside, the rain had stopped, though no one had seen it stop.

Ginza continued its shining. Elevators opened and closed. Lawyers discovered language. Fans mistook shadows for news. Somewhere, a logo not yet drawn waited in the dry.

No man had been rescued.

No house had been wounded.

No emperor had commanded.

The stones remained visible.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5877488&forum_id=2),#49963435)