it starts with nothing, and in the end you have the wreckage of an orchestra, a houseplant, and 13 bathtubs full of honey twirling at the edge of your vision.  And you have vocal chords that can make sounds even when they're silent.  that's what it starts with: silence.  (you keep a handful of basketball courts on your shin.)  then there's this quiet hum that rises all around you.  (you keep a hornet behind your ear.)  it stands over you like a tree. (there are telephone wires running up your thighs.) you want to hug it, but there is nothing to touch. (your left ear drum has turned into a cactus.) it feels like a desert shifting inside of you. (a mourning dove has made its nest in the nape of your neck.) you think you are going deaf, but it is only because you have never heard music. (blinking feels like a moth having a nightmare.) then it all starts to sound like matchbooks making love with flames.  (you keep your scars inside your ribs.)  it is the sound of smoke. (your knees have turned into garden hoses.) then all the pianos get angry.  (your throat is a bank vault.)  the sky decides to give up.  (you learned to cry from your backbone.)  the ocean will not speak to you. (when you lay in your bed, you catch on fire.) the phone keeps telling you people are dying.  (your heart is a book.)  you are tired of hearing. (your head is a carnival.) and just when you think you are going to fall down, you stand there, dripping water all over the bathroom tiles and you look at yourself in the mirror (butterflies are being born inside your wrist) and of all things, you smile.