Blood is my friend. Without it my cells shrivel. Without it I die.
At night, alone with myself, I hear it rushing through arteries and veins, platelets tumbling in a soup of plasma and glucose through slick, twisty tubes, lining up to enter narrow capillaries, delivering oxygen and fuel, seeking idle insulin. It is a low-pitched sound: wind passing through woodlands.
I hear a higher pitched sound too: A demon dentist drilling, rising and falling but never stopping. It is the sound of my thoughts.
Alone, at night, with myself, the low sound and the high sound become music. If I lie perfectly still and quiet the concert...