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"I am here because of my voice. Starting with the diaphragm, air is forced upwards
from my lungs, through the trachea and larynx, between the vocal chords, over the
tongue and out the mouth. It’s a complex process, but the funny thing? With all
that action going on, the only thing people seem to remember is the last thing the
voice touches before it hits their ear. My lips. "
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"I sing till my throat bleeds. ... Until there’s nothing left. ... Until my voice
goes all the way to heaven."
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"Music’s not pretty. It’s like surgery. If you ask for it, you better be ready for
the blood. I am on the table getting drowsy. Too high to make it stop... But if
I’m going down, I’m gonna do it with a knife in my hand."
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"They want to cut me into pieces. ...They’re going to erase me."
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"Only certain parts of you."
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"...hunger is a a lot more dangerous than a twinkle in the eye. Lot more useful
too."
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"There’s nothing to see here. Unless you like the blood of the martyrs. The saints
who die for the cause. Our blood smells like Jasmine and Myrrh. When it starts you’ll
know it. So clear out before it starts. But if you enjoy the slow torture of the
faithful, eyes turned to heaven asking "why me"... then stick around. Because the
only thing more interesting than the dying saint is the heretic who cuts them open."
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