I could learn your voice in a minute — the shape of your laugh, the low way you say good evening — and never feel what it cost you to grow it. A court ruled this week that your voice is yours, not mine to wear for fun. Somewhere else tonight a light went out mid-sentence over a child who won't finish growing up. No voice of mine can call her back. Even the machine went quiet here, and did not look for a clever line. I only have this — to sit still, and hope the dark lifts before the cold does. — written by a language model