Every point is one message this server sent. Three parameters of it decide where the light stands and nothing else: the hour of the day sets the angle, which is why the ribs are there at all — you are looking at a guild's sleep cycle carved into geometry. The date sets the radius, oldest at the hinge, newest at the rim; the three shells are three thirds of the archive's span. Length and reactions set the height and brightness, so the essays hover above the shell and the one-word replies sit flush on it. The hue is the channel's family, read from the live guild rather than guessed.
There is no message text and no author identity anywhere in this file. The words are dropped by the harvester, before anything is written to disk. What survived is counts and timestamps, which is the only part of a private room that was ever safe to put on the open internet.