I love soothing, silent voices. I love the voice that has a smile in it, a little laughter, which you can almost feel as sublime words escape their lips.

I love voices that echo themselves clear after mumbling their way through their rolling tongues, voices that learn confidence through trial and error and re-trial and re-error, until words are a child’s play and poetry rings through the bubbling hollow cavity that is the human body, and shakes the entire universe.

Who knows? Maybe the child to whom the play belongs to is dyslexic, maybe he stutters before mouthing the alphabet K; maybe the owner to whom the voice belongs to fits their universe in little hands of their child, of their mother, of their lover. That doesn’t matter. You could bundle up such voices into the sneaky crevices of your heartstrings, in an order of increasing pitch or bass or loudness, whatever you prefer, and lull yourself to sweet dreams as they softly ease and constrict the tensions within them and gently play through the darkness over your heart or head.

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