There are Other voices, which you are part of, yet separate
Those Other voices are filled within you, with their weight of coarse speech and their calluses that form upon your whispers, where empathy is a gesture gained and lost at the tip of fingers. Forgiveness is a motion of the air.
Those voices have years rubbed into you, your stripped throat rests for breath, transcriptions of your representation are tumbles, veering, slips of the tongue, loose like clay, then formed, dried, solid.
Those Other voices are differing tones of speech, a music, singing is flesh. They dance in the dissonance of tomorrow’s word search. Key words twist. Fonts waltz in the shape of the living. You are printed, faxed, fallen, risen within voices, as you chant, now, in front of me.
They move, they are moved, they have been moving, we become consonant