Can old domestic disputes still be heard in the kitchen? Can the girl make out her faint infant cries on her first day of kindergarten? Do moans remain etched in bedroom walls like cave drawings long after she has left you?
Are plaster, plywood, concrete, and brick enough to contain our shouts? Do they mingle together with the whispers of the elderly lady a floor below and the cheers from the football stadium across town? Do they penetrate crust and mantle to become fossilized time-capsules for our descendants?
Do they rocket past clouds and satellites, Saturn and Pluto, and out of the Milky Way? Do they sail on intergalactic currents, catching in the earpieces of voyeuristic aliens? Can a pleading, praying, begging, screamed entreaty for love, understanding, or forgiveness outpace the expanding universe, reach the bubbled ether of its edge, penetrate the border of existence and land in the lap of an understanding God?
And if so, is there enough fuel for the salve we need to make it back in time?