~ the decemberists, red right ankle
"my father takes me on his lap. he rocks me back and forth, softly singing the song of our homeland, a song in a minor key, my and my father’s song, we often sit together like this, but while he is really singing, i release my breath only on certain notes, as the desire strike me, very softly…this too pleases him and me. i sing him my notes quietly against his skin from the outside, into his throat, while at the same time i am listening through his shirt and shoulder to the blood circulating inside my father. again."
~ jenny erpenbeck, the book of words