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.
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.