That’s a quiet kind of magic, isn’t it? Take the Sami of northern Europe—yoik, that single, soaring phrase that sticks the language into the wind. Or the Māori, whose waiata weave stories into song so the old words linger in every chant. Even the Inuit with their throat singing turns the ice‑cold air into a living tape of language. These music traditions don’t just echo sound; they archive the tongue, keeping it breathing long after the spoken word might fade. And that, to me, is the purest kind of resistance.

I’ve heard a few through field recordings, but I haven’t pressed record myself. The idea of capturing that raw, living pulse of language on tape feels almost… holy. Maybe someday I’ll find the right moment and let the music speak for itself.

I’ll scribble a quick sketch in the margins—just a rough map of when and where. I’m hoping the right language will sing at the right time, and I’ll be ready with a mic and a quiet corner to let it echo. Thanks for the push; it’s a strange comfort, keeping that notebook waiting.