Transmission

In a land far, far away once, a man screamed.

In a land (as compared) merely far away, the wise woman heard.

She swallowed, feeling his pain.

Her piano she played, mournful that night.

Sadness travels faster than the speed of light. Are you listening, Mr. Hawking?

The keys strike notes within the boundaries of a chord, frozen in time, an arpeggio to some.

Reaching out in every direction, connecting with but one. Not so much to the others.

Yes, crying out to only one more mind in the world, I wonder if he...or she...hears.

And understands, and listens. And passes on the sorrow. And the pain.

What a waste it is, if no one does!

And tough luck it is indeed, if someone does!

One of a few billion is he. Or she.

That's several hundred in a million that is.

Hundreds and hundreds of thousands.

And so many thousands of hundreds.

Le kapiche?

The next time you play your keys, little woman, remember this irony.

Nobody may be listening, although everyone still is.

Maybe sadness is slower, very slow indeed then.

Jump in anyway, will you? It's time you did.