Straining to hear the muffled voices Realto pushed himself against the door jam. At first glance it looked as if he was attempting to grope the door for his thighs were pancaked up against the knob and his head lay sideways between the arches. He crouched there transfixed and as the minutes went by and his legs began to buckle Realto wondered if he had heard anything at all. Although it seemed very long ago, he had been waltzing around his kitchen to an imaginary string quartet while dabbling peanut butter onto thin slices of pumpernickel bread only fifteen minutes before. Just as he began to bite into the war bread a rousing melody struck him right between the earlobes. With peanut butter stuck to his jaw he froze. Looking like a performer in Michael Jackson's "Thriller" dance sequence Realto kept position so as not to miss a whimper. The sound, that melody or whatever it was that had captured his attention so instantly because of its weight seemed to vanish. It had carried a heaviness that brought you down into a base that one never knew existed. But yet. Though it trumpeted a loaded burden there were wings attached to this sentiment that kept it hovering just inches from ground. Just inches from being buried into that dim place where one blocks out all light and murkiness holds onto sorrow because it is theirs, that being their only reason to give.
Realto felt this. But there was no way he could put it in expression. So when his kneecaps shook and his back throbbed he slowly backed up from the door. Plopping himself upon his hollowed out couch he began to run his fingers through his hair. To an outsider it appeared as if he was struggling to excrete something from under his scalp. He watched his hair regularly and it wasn't The Lice. It was the note, the melody, the air which drowned out all conflict and kept afloat amongst silence.