flushed luck is green listening to music that screamed in the agony of its own existence 010811 ... ovenbird Bees built their honeyed hive in the stygian dark of my saccule so every sound was overlaid with wax and the relentless buzz of my broken cilia. I woke each morning to a hum holding hands with syrupy silence and I shook my head like a dog, trying to dislodge my deafness, trying to force an opening for music to tunnel into. I feared sleep. I feared the squirming pressure that would build in the night and leave me gasping for sound. It felt like drowning though it should have felt like being buried alive. Today a magician with latex hands made a rushing cataract of my ear canal and when the roaring water ceased I knew what it was like to be born, to feel amniotic fluid run hot from the tipped jug of my auricle. Please sing to me now, because I’m sure I’ve never heard the world so clear. I’m sure I’ve never known such pellucid joy. 260812 what's it to you? who go blather from