I worry…
People will stop singing.
When a computer can imitate the voice and smooth out every quaver.
Can compress the voice ringing out into the space between your two fingers pinched together.
Can straighten the pitch and make it perfect.
You can pass it through a filter and iron it out.
and it doesn’t resemble you anymore.

Tame it.

We will forget that song lives first in the body,
This imperfect house for the soul.

I am broken.
A cracked vessel trying to hold onto water.

Don’t forget me!

I am a part of this too.
My body a filter.
My imperfections beautiful.
and My longing for joy.