Used to be, all I had to do was open my mouth, and flocks of birds would fly out, twittering and fluttering madly, bouncing into each other, before scattering off with explosive energy. Now, except for the scratchy taste of some telltale feathers, I feel like a silent bone cage, waiting for a trill.
spiral scratch
parting of the sensory .. . { modest mouse, we were dead before the ship even sank }
hallelujah time .. . { the wailers, burnin’ }
minnie the moocher .. . { cab calloway }
