He had no voice so he tried to write. He was compelled to tell his story because it was so unique. There was no other story that could compare. He’d seen so much in his young life … so much pain … so much beauty … so much that only he could describe and explain. There were periods when the need to express himself was overwhelming. The need felt like an ulcer that hemorraged in his belly or a tumor that grew at an alarming rate. He could feel the tumor getting larger by the minute. He wanted to scream, but he had no voice. If he could write down his experiences he might be able to survive the pain, but he had no hands so he could not write. The pain that was so severe sometimes gave way to a dull ache … and the ache gave way to mild relief that quickly developed into a tsunami of ecstasy. He was drowning in pleasurable sensations until they became (by degrees) painful irritations that were excruciating. He wanted to cry, but he had no eyes and no glands to produce tears. If he could express himself he’d be saved. If he could dance he’d be able to lift himself from desperation, but he had no legs. He wasn’t sure he had any body at all … however, he did feel pain in his stomach and panic in his brain; or was that merely an illusion? He was imprisoned within the boundaries of pain and pleasure, breaking against the walls of consciousness. It was the sound that finally embedded itself into his tenuous existence, the sound of a thousand bells unfolding in echoes of descending notes, the last peels of a Dark Music (the symphony that writes itself).