Shall I tell you the story of the man who loved playing his cello and hated having to talk, so much, that he tore his throat open like a geode and slid his rosined bow along the taut lines of his vocal cords? Or perhaps about the woman who built a birdcage between her ribs ; the manic hummingbirds that flitted there on days of delight, that morphed to songless, flightless dodos on days of drawn curtains, untoasted bread, and dirty hair. Then, of course, there is you, fantastic flotsam, beautiful debris, you. How sometimes, to seek escape, you become a pearl button on my blouse, brushing agai