Noodling tones slowly rise and fall, transforming nearby stones into an unrecognizable, ancient algebra. No translations exist; regardless, their complexity is outside the capabilities of human cognition—their solutions remain guarded by an impenetrable shell of ignorance, protecting a yolk that provides reassurance and confidence to those who do understand their meaning. The sounds leave residual streaks of color as they descend, slowly waving like rubber trees dancing to a secret song.
The introduction eventually settles on the floor, soon trodden by rumbling, primal grooves and shots of overdriven feedback. The rhythms recycle endlessly, occasionally introducing small, yet intentional, defects—a far cry from the pristine products of the hive of modern industry. While some defects fade, others persist, accumulating into a spiraling, spinning force of ever-changing, effervescent wonder and beauty. The winding sounds propel dust around the room, causing particles to collide and fuse into larger runes.
A hairline fracture appears on the egg’s exterior.
An old hand conducts the grooves to one side of the room—crooked, wrinkled fingers turning upside down, inquiring, “Is this Herbie for commercials?” The ringing, circling tones have a radio show-esque quality, murmuring playfully before the next movement overtakes them. The hand’s index finger beckons more grooves as the search for subtly continues, pressing, “Can we raise the bar from last time?” Pebbles scratch against the floor, leaving tails of sound like trebly hi-hats; like rustling leaves blowing in the breeze, they will eventually lay still and break down again, providing a mystic mulch for forming a new equation. The objects around the room tremble, coerced by an unseen force.
Inside the dweller’s apartment, dust rests everywhere: the carpet, ceiling fan, and lone window sill all coated with a grainy residue. Household objects begin to move: the silverware levitates off the dishrack and quietly places itself into a drawer; the calendar turns to the current month, a pen marks important dates; mail slips through a crack in the door; the dog’s water and food bowls are replenished, his ears lovingly tickled.
The old hand quickly gestures, as if operating an imaginary switchboard. Once the consistency of a soft sand, the dust particles nearby are now a riverbed of large, aerodynamic stones, smoothed by egg shakers and a shuffling beat that gently forces friction between them. The sounds compete for attention, reducing headspace as they push against each other, increasing the room’s pressure, like three craftsmen jostling as they hunch over their steel instruments—forging new, heralding arrangements over a roaring fire. The larger stones gather and form new symbols and equations, increasing the intensity of the movement around the house.
Yolk leaks onto the floor from the egg’s enlarged crack.
The hand rubs a wrinkled, bulbous nose. Gone are the days of chasing your brain, inquisitively searching for an answer. The eggshell trembles and groans under the straining weight of his understanding, exposed by an ambivalent archaeologist, unconcerned with sharing his truth, scalded by a history of attempted communications that were followed by rejections and condemnations. The laundry is loaded and the washer switched on, medium heat with an extra rinse phase added to the cycle. Milk pours into a glass before returning into the fridge.
Eggs cook themselves on a skillet, flipped at the perfect time and plated once done over-easy.
The hand gestures like an old codger attempting to feed the birds, humming Greg’s melody as the morning ceremony comes to a close: the solution to every equation identified. A sigh escapes his lips, as the conclusion reminds him of a dolphin’s language—those whistles, pops, and clicks as the solutions dissolve into a swirling bed of distorted ambiance.
After eating breakfast, he walks slowly outside, wrapping his long gray beard around his neck to shield himself from the cold. While waiting at a crosswalk, an ambulance passes, wailing as it rushes towards another crisis. The man watches it pass, then continues walking after the walk signal turns green.