Silence, or thereabouts.

I am turning into a fly. The less I talk, the more eyes I spout, compounding vision, seeing into and through, mostly turned within.

I grow bigger ears too. Again, mostly turned within. (which reminds me of a question I ask often and forget to find answers for: how is it our ears hear all without, but not the swish of blood, the beat of heart, the groan of bones, the sparking of nerves?)

I want to be a lone fly. Hairy and loathsome and left alone to watch and contemplate. Be able to consumer anything, have no needs and utterly and incomparably adaptive to any situation and circumstance. Heightened to every nuance of every moment. Dodging everything, like hummingbird in perfect buzzing stillness things whizzing by that I see with compound precision, see at, see through, tiny sidestep, resume, see away. In perfect balance. Hairy loathsome fly alone and quite happy.