He stares intently at the lyrics in the CD booklet. They should make sense, he whispers. Things should make sense. Nonsense, he says all hushed and quiet, should not be acceptable.

All the parts are there, he figures. There is the making of a story. There is, he reasons, a protagonist. There is a dilemma to be solved. There are various obstacles and the glint of a reward on the horizon if said obstacles can be overcome. But that's it. The pieces are thrown around, random and obnoxious and sharp like littered toys in a darkened den. He can't put them together. And it annoys him.

Give me a hint, he says, pressing the play button again.

But the words are just as jumbled, just as confusing this time around. He understands that the author is just some dude, just some guy scratching a pen to notebook paper and trying to find phrasings that fit, somehow, into the notes his bandmates have already laid down. There is, of course, filler... meaningless place holders just there to keep the flow steady. But still. There should be a meaning. There should be something deeper to it. He craves an explanation. A window into the world of the three and a half minute story that he's listened to nearly twenty times in a row.

But nothing comes from it.

There are lines about silver things, and hints of a secret life. There is a couplet about a world past the bathroom sink drain, and something that seems to be a reference to the Roman Empire's use of lead in their plumbing. There's something about Christmas in there, something about wrapped gifts and foil paper. And there's some sort of venomous stalker lurking amongst the rhymes. And when the singer, the character the singer inhabits amongst the plucked banjo and muted oboes, finally succeeds in whatever, exactly, his quest has been, there is such a cacophony of triumph, such a monstrous swell that the frustration of its lack of weighted depth is just compounded unbearably.

He growls at it, and backs up the song to his favorite part.

There is a part of him that wants to surrender to the cynical and mundane fact that there's nothing of importance, nothing magic, nothing to dig into at all in the well written, but ultimately empty, track. But there is a little glimmer of wonder that it exudes, a barbed sparkle that works its way into his belly and hooks in. He demands reason. He demands something profound from the lyrics.

He rolls his eyes. He's tired, so he crawls into the bed with the song softly playing on repeat. The words worm and wriggle inside his brain even without his consent. And as he drifts off, pieces begin to fall into place. He unconsciously smiles as his sleeping mind connects dots that were hidden to him. There is a map, now, in his head... its scope is wider than he could've imagined. It unfolds like a nation sized work of gorgeous origami. It is intricate and complex, a multi-layered glory unfurling in incredible patterns of meaning and purpose and wonder. His brain ignites, a raging fire that's just a pale reflection of the illumination coming from the enigmatic song he'd poured over so angrily for so long. It's come together. It's filled in and it's perfect. Its story is deceptively simple, its imagery so universal as to nearly be blinding, but it was birthed in such a complex and beautiful understanding of reality that it has no choice but to swallow him whole. He finally understands. It finally makes sense, and in his dreams, he feels a joy he's never known.

And then, suddenly, there's a crash in his bedroom. A stack of magazines and dirty clothes topples and knocks down an old, busted lava lamp. He wakes up with a jolt, startled and breathing too quickly. The darkness of the room disorients him and it takes him a while before he finally snaps to, the conclusions he's drawn in his sleep now draining quickly from him, dripping out his ears and evaporating into the pitch black of the night. He has no recollection of the meaning he found, no memory of his merciful comprehension at all.

He hears the song playing, softly, over the quick rush pulse thrumming in his ears. And he can't stand the damn thing anymore.

In a rage, he stumbles from his bed, takes out the CD and snaps it with one quick and sinister bend.

He throws himself back into slumber, mad but too tired to care. He gives up on the music, on the lyrics and his attempt at meaning. He hums the tune, atonally, as he falls asleep.

He can't quite remember the lyrics at all.

THE END.

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