Cochlea

Like the vibrations coming in contact with the cochlea hairs and turning to electricity, the wind blew the tall, brown grass ever so gently before your closed eyes. In this dark cellar the air is stale and the rot gasps for water. You tend to the rat bites reddening your malformed feet with eyes still closed, as if to avoid the blinding light of heaven. Skin-and-bone cows grow plump in your hazy, black gaze, and smile with eyes agape and enveloped in wet. They frolic, as if never even touching the ground, as they make operatic crescendos with their mooing. This song and it's amplitude overwhelms your whole body with ticklish euphoria, but your dusty cochlea in your dark cellar remains hardly touched. All but the sounds of still wind, creaking wood, the witch laughing from afar, the dying coughs of the city tramp, and the lightening crackling exists in a realm pushed behind the walls of damp stone. You crawl and collect nothingness under your small, wooden bed, letting time blow out the candles, with eyes still closed and the cows growing hungry. The wind calms and the tall, brown grass stays still. A bowl of bread, broth, and rice is pushed through the doggy door, as is a glass of parasitic, fuzzy water. Your nose is clogged with vomit and the cows begin dropping. The cellar and it's aura rips your eyes open, and you see ahead of you more stone, ever thickening stone. 

Now you jump into the wall and find yourself at the base of a grand waterfall, smashing upon you with fierce conviction. You flop your way over to a nearby mossy stone, decorated in bird shit. You see a mud puddle full of crocodiles straight ahead, their eyes are roses and their teeth are filtered by corks. They lazily sigh, and hide behind the fireflies. The monkeys hop about on the branches, as if scared away by some creature lurking in the bushes. You find a human skull among the riverbed pebbles, as polished as the mirrors of the royal houses. Now claws rip the blood from your flesh and send a concentrated cloud of red down the sandy, transparent, tranquil stream, pushing through the small pebbles like a grand, red, volcanic plume of smoke consuming the himalayas. The hairs of the cochlea shrivel and implode under the incessant roar of the beast, the bringer of your demise, yet your dusty cochlea in the dark cellar remains hardly touched.