If I were a preacher—if I had a sermon—if I were a protester, a radical in the totalitarian regime of the self—if I were fearless enough to be jailed—or fearless enough to break out—if I were Aretha, or the organist on her gospel album, or her reverend father—if I had a voice like that—a voice with a dream, the kind of voice that screamed—then I’d scream you a song about—
That sweet fluffy thing.
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