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The Dark Man lifted his barreled eyes from the page. He spoke through me, to reach an ear yet to open fully.
“There is no music in these words.”
My arms rested on cool Formica while my head rang to the beat of the swinging clapper within. His arms floated, supporting the leaves of bonded rag containing my darkest remembrance, honed to an evil shine. He held my best light and spoke the words that dimmed its glow, repeating himself for the benefit of my deaf mind.
“There is no music in these words.”
My hearing improved on the second try and the space between us grew longer as the air drew closer. I felt the horizon recede with his eyes, sunk so deeply into his head, disappearing behind a tilted brow. Having made his judgment, he now awaited mine. I began –
“This is supposed to be a story, not a song.”
He presented the pages back toward me, as if to reject my spoken words along with those written.
“Every song is a story. Every story is a song.”
I reached out for my forsaken tale, but he pulled it back, offering a forceful gaze in its place.
“You have written lyrics without a point of reference. Words without an inner harmony cannot reach deeply into any conscious soul.”
I did not understand and said so. Holding the papers out once more, the Dark Man at last allowed me to accept delivery. He paused to take in what air was left us, and then ordered me to select a passage, any passage.
“Sing the words to me. Perhaps your music is too subtle for this reader.”
I complied, or tried to; the effort left me red and sweating. The ensuing silence shrunk me to a period on a page. Another lifetime passed before he spoke.
“Either you are a bad singer, or this is a bad song.”
“Or both,” said I.
“Or both.”
That left nothing more to say and nothing more was said. I arose from the table, seeking air and light, and abandoned the pile of words, the tangled ball of punctuated strings, to the vacuum of dead night.
