The Simon was a very short being, which was unfortunate at this moment in time, for he had fallen into a well. Try as he might, he was unable to scale the concrete wall.
He was trapped. What would he possibly know about climbing? He was, by nature, a sensitive folk singer-songwriter. He wept as he cursed his fate, “What good are my musical strengths if I die here? Who will be my role model? What if I die here? Hmmm, hello darkness, my old friend.”
It dawned on the Simon, if he ever escaped this predicament and encountered an impenetrable writer’s block, he could always poach the musical culture of another country and “Americanize” the shit out of it before calling it his own.
He looked up and saw the moon, which had earlier been obscured by dark clouds. As he assessed the well, his cell, he could not comprehend the purpose of it. It was bone dry, with dead shriveled worms, hardly a source of water. He mumbled to himself, “Hmmm, ‘neath the halo of a moon, there were many dead worms… nope, ‘neath the halo of a street lamp, I turned my collar to the cold and damp.”
His eyes widened with fear, as the night sky lit up with lightning. What he would do for a mother and child reunion, you had no idea. In desperation, he sang as loud as he could, “Bye, bye love. Bye, bye happiness. Hello loneliness, I think I’m-a gonna cry.”
The Garfunkel, a simple being of greater height and golden sponge afro happened to be passing by, looking for companionship. It would prove to be a good day for him. He heard the plain vocal styling of the Simon, and quickened his pace towards the voice.
The Garfunkel responded by singing harmony with the Simon. He sang in an angelic tenor, “Bye, bye love, bye, bye sweet caress, hello emptiness. I feel like I could di-ie. Bye, bye my love goodby-eye.”
The Simon was astonished. The harmony was beautiful, not perfect, but much better than decent. “Thank goodness you found me. I am the Simon, I am a folk singer-songwriter, and I am trapped down here.”
The Garfunkel scratched his head wondering how this being who claimed to be the Simon could not climb his way out of an empty swimming pool. Here was the Simon’s dilemma, he only looked ahead and up, never side to side nor behind him. The Garfunkel thought he’d take advantage of the situation.
“Before I help you out. You must grant me one wish.”
The Simon was offended, “Look, I may be short, but I am not a leprechaun. I am merely a sensitive folk singer-songwriter.”
“But there is a wish that you can grant with the powers you possess.”
“I’m listening,” sighed the Simon.
The Garfunkel leaned forward and whispered in the Simon’s ear. The Simon nodded and responded, “Alright, I am obviously at your mercy for the rain is approaching rapidly.” And if on cue, lightning spread across the sky.
The Garfunkel jumped into the empty pool. The Simon and the Garfunkel embraced, then kissed uncomfortably for eight straight minutes, as the summer rain fell on their crinoline hair.
MORAL: Silence like a cancer grows. “The Sound Of Silence” went on to hit number one in January 1966.