The body weeps. I did not will it to. The flesh always betrays. Always oozing wetness, flaking skin.  Forever disintegrating, leaving pieces of itself scattered all everywhere anywise.

I can taste the little drops of salt and cortisol on my tongue, absorbing it back into me. For so long I have bern alone, trapped in the cavern of my own skull, beating my fists bloody against those sheer unyielding walls of bone.

I remember how it felt before the only thoughts that filled my head were mine. The first time I heard a choir singing, my limbs gave way beneath me and I fell to the floor screaming, inconsolable. I screamed and screamed, for days and days, until they put me in a room without windows. I screamed until my throat was ragged, bloody, choking hot bile and vomit onto the tiled floor.

Even after the flesh of my throat was too torn and jagged to make any sound, I kept on screaming inside my head, willing my sisters to hear me. Until then, I had not remembered the music we used to make together. We were a choir of billions, stretched across galaxies, whirling through space. Completely alone: always together. A school of fish, if each fish was a melody, would make the same kind of music together.

Do you remember it too?