He sings out of his loneliness.
There is no answer. There has never been an answer.
He is aware of those who, like him, traverse the deeps and celebrate the cycle of dry and wet and storms. He is aware that he is not the only being of his kind. Yet he is alone.
There are other songs. He feels the songs against his skin, pulsing through him, resonating with the loneliness inside him. Those who are like him--like, yet unlike, somehow--sing too, but their songs are subtly different.
He tries to mimic them, but how can he perceive how his songs are received? He can only know how their songs feel on his skin, in his innermost being. He cannot imagine what his songs feel like to others.
Yet he sings on. Someone will answer him. Someday, somehow.
Someone will answer his loneliness.