You enter a room. The drywall is cracked, dry, crumbling, and the hardwood floors are covered in dust. There is a humming in your head, though the ruined house is cool you feel a vibrating warmth, and when you look towards the warmth you see a black box, chest height, humming. You draw closer, you’re drawn closer, and the warmth gets warmer, the hum gets louder.
The hum contains words, the hum contains music. The warmth reminds you of being back with your loved ones. The hum reminds you of distant insects on a Summer evening. The box reminds you of the obelisk from 2001: A Space Odyssey. You touch it. It feels nice. Smooth. You stroke it. It still feels nice this way too. The machine purrs. The purr reminds you of the warmth of something small and alive being near you. You remember being smaller. Remembering being smaller reminds you that you are bigger now, and are late For Things.
People are waiting for you. The people waiting for you are an anchor to your existence and confirmation of your relevance. Mysteries can come later. You leave the room. You know it’s here now, and it will wait for you to come back. The machine will keep humming. It will stay warm. This place will be here for you.
You opened the door whose outline you saw inscribed in the mortar of the bricks of the wall. You stroked the machine’s sleek black surface. You heard the words that weren’t there. And you can come back and do it again, whenever you can see the lines in the bricks, or the grain of the wood, or the cracks in the drywall, or in cobwebs, or in shadows.
There’s time enough for everything.