My cochlea has shriveled. Eustachian tubes stuffed with deterioration. Hammer, anvil and stirrup shrinking in pain. This is a celebration of all things that eventually wither and wear. Like the daffodils wilting, in a mason jar on my desk. I cannot throw them out. A string is attached. To the obligatory end. To every right temple, heads slightly tilted. Splaying out from every instrument. They are pulled down, taut. Released up, taut. Pulled down, released up. Down, up. We willingly wear them. We close our eyes to better feel. The synchronized motion. We have become woodpeckers. Furious, intense, focused. On getting to the inside of ancient growing things. By moving our heads rapidly to the vibrations. Of the air, ground. Rhythmic. Together. Perfect. The unity here is tangible. A moveable energy. A feast for empty hearts. On destruction. Of your ear. Drum.