I love voices.
I want to hear voices.
I want to intently listen to voices.
I want to bask in voices.
I want to memorize voices—their rhythms, their intonations, their quirks, their tweaks, in sickness and in health.
I want to be surrounded by voices.
I want to listen to babies and toddlers and kids and tweens and teens and 20-30-40-somethings and middle-aged folks and old folks and people on their deathbeds.
I want to bottle up a voice that’s going through puberty and listen to it when I’m feeling lonely.
I want to document smokers’ voices.
I want to trace the evolution of my favorite singers’ voices.
I want to be able to go back in time and hear what my parents sounded like at my age.
I want the high and the low, the strong and the soft.
I want the deepest voices to tell me the sweetest things, and I want sweetest voices to tell me the deepest things.
I want to be bathed in the reverberations of a voice that breaks my heart and melts my soul.