The file seems a good deal lighter than it should be. You were expecting transcripts, or newspaper clippings, or photocopies of messages between the people in question. Instead there are only a few scraps of paper clearly torn from larger sheets - carefully, for the most part, as if someone realised halfway through that parts of it were worth saving, barely, maybe.

Warning, the heading reads, this tale contains Mutant poetry.

Oh dear.

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Pretty birdy, lovely wings,
if I could tell you of the things that make my soul take flight with joy. . .
but I can't - I'm just a mutant boy.

Pretty raptor, lovely beak,
oh how I wish that I could speak of empty beach and ocean swell. . .
but I'm just a mutant - and I smell.

Pretty [redacted]! Breast so proud!
If I could say the words aloud I'd tell you that you look so fine!
But I can't - cos you're offline.