My fingers are cold and I felt them tingle a little when I stopped moving. I’m typing now so I can only feel the tingling in the rest of my body. My torso, legs (my right knee hurts a little), feet, and cold toes tumble around in tightly-phrased syncopation. Tendons, ligaments hum grossly against muscle and bone, surprisingly in-key. Gradually, I feel my stomach tendons tear into tenor, harmonized with a bass-heavy backside. I feel it at the peak of my spine. The noise is barely louder than my shallow breaths while my heart chugs along at a steady -- BPM. Intensity of tension, release, dissonant Irish pub tunes brought the sensation to the forefront. What‘s with his head? I hear a tear, like celery, in my ankle that blurs my vision. Through the haze of beautiful pain I hear it wailing through like gold. The molten sound, so familiar to me and yet it never retains its shape for more than one beat. My heart doesn’t skip, it keeps on in swung 8ths that could fling a child face-first into the sand or buffalo chips or whatever the fuck they’re called. The sensation doesn’t stop, relentless in its quest to break me---dilute me---down to little organic molecules. Tiny nothings, devoid of any self-sense of God Almighty. By this point I am beginning to shake noticeably and can no longer keep my eyes open. The feeling below my waist is gone, the sound it emanates reminds me of what it used to feel like. But I haven’t stopped yet, my heart at -- BPM. I feel it sweeping over me, ticking slowly, nearer to my forehead. I know that once it hits my eyes the show is over. The sound, oh I forgot the sound, how great it really is. I still feel a few tendons, still intact, plucked by ghostly fingers thick with scars. I am sure I am seizing by now, the smoke alarm went off long ago, but I still have a minute left. If my eyes could open I would look down at myself. But I feel dismembered. I felt nothing. I still feel nothing. But something’s missing, like my leg. Downtown I’d be considered a poet, speaking for the lost art of artistry to people peering through glazed donuts at the milk carton I stand on. But here I’m just a nut in his bedroom, getting worked up over nothing. Nobody else must hear the sound, or else they’d know it too. Is it almost over? Still shaking? Yes, still shaking. The sound of my head batted against the wood floor is muffled gibberish to the harmony that sputters from every other angle. I clench my teeth but keep typing; the keys are rested in the crater that formerly held my bowels. The sensation rounds out and drapes over my eyes. I feel a click in my spine, like one of those jukeboxes clicks when you pick a song. Eyes opened, I blink fat tears into oblivion, and breathe. They are all staring at me. Hey, it’s nice to have you back.