The decaying, slippery throng of voices just under our primary internal psychoauditory narrative. The sounds heard coming in from out on the street, the way they then loop, stretch, and dance within the mind. They play out, tear up into shreds, and dissipate. After a silence of some time, we say “oh” aloud. “Oh!” Sing a line of nonsense. You can sing anything! The noise is sucked out and away, but may be analyzed within, spun into hay and burned. The lungs explain. A dog barks and disappears. The blue light of a UFO slips into soundwaves and becomes a hum. The hum becomes a fractured voice, finds a body with two lungs, vocal cords, a head. The body of a person in a forgetting place, a forgetting voice as it ages now.
The same place once occupied, perhaps, by Morton and Joan, singing against self.
The same place, perhaps, occupied by Brian, singing profound trivialities,
or William, letting loops survive death as ghosts. Elegies for themselves.
A breath explains its vibration. The words have no meaning against the sound.
Don’t listen to A Turn of Breath without modifying yours.
Inhale slowly, hold for some time, exhale slowly,
host breath.
Ian William Craig pulled breath from night and made a voice.
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