His voice
evokes desire — a desire to listen, and to be, to consume, to assume, to pull
the voice
into myself, to devour
the voice
in an effort to speak, to howl, to sing, to seduce with
that voice
in return. I could listen to
that voice
over and over and over again, as though the rest of the world might fade into nothing, and
his voice
might be the only thing remaining. I want
his voice.
I want to hear
his voice.
I want to have
his voice.
I want to be
his voice.
The upswell of emotion causes a frisson not everyone can feel; I feel sorry for those who don’t understand.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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