It's Just Missing; No, I Don't Mind It.

There's something apparently intimate, endearing about a lost voice. To small children it is, evidently, magical. They lean in close and tell you things as though they were divulging, not just answering simple questions.
Would you like a sticker?
Yes.
What are you going to do with it?
I'm going to put it on my jacket.

Imagine this whispered with hands cupping a little mouth to prevent anyone outside the conversation from seeing what is being said.

How did you lose your voice? Were you iceskating?

Are you sad?

Will your voice ever come back?

Come Home For More Of This

Camera One:




Camera Two:

Come On, Think About It.

I bet you could feel it from all the way up north, my mental packing and travel toward you. We could keep a Williamsburg apartment, cluttered with old things and books, listen to records and only cook brunch. Every other meal: out. We can hold hands occasionally, and at arms' length we'll spill out our best haikus (all of them). We could stay beautiful. Well dressed in every sense; better that way, and we could be happy by ourselves forever.