Among the many physical ways one body can support another, the voice is surely one of the most common. Bodies pull other bodies forward, helping them continue. In the face of hunger, the voice persists. In the face of time, it prevails. Against work, injustice, love, envy, longing, exploitation, pain, death, everyday life, humor, gender norms, violence, and extinction, the voice endures. Whales sing as much as sheep, cows as much as wolves. Birds and humans sing without end. "To those who have never sung, it is hard to begin," we once read in the dedication of a book. It was a love story, but also a story of survival. More or less. From that proverb, key elements of the project emerged: disappearance, hope, voice, song. Reflecting on the gaps between those words led, almost unexpectedly, to Galician, birdsong, fascism, symbols of virility, dementia, and more, all woven into the same origin myth, the same lullaby. Imperialism and extinction seemed full of silence, while resistance to them seemed full of song: mothers sing beside cradles; workers sing in streets and fields; robins sing in their nests; elders sing to the young; the living sing to the dead; lovers sing to one another; the desperate sing; the hopeful sing; the angry sing; twins sing; we all sing, to pass the time. Above all, we sing to fight death, to draw closer to others, and to survive. We sing because others sang before us and so that others may sing after us, because what a song teaches is the ability to call to others, to imitate them, to entertain them, and even to summon them; the ability to offer and find comfort, as well as the remarkable power to change. Voice and language, in all their forms, are bridges between distant things, a place where worlds are made and the hybrids that inhabit them take shape. Let this be an invitation to tell and sing the world in a way that makes the lives of others as important, as sacred, as complex, and as necessary as one’s own.