I have been reading a riveting book: James Maskalyk’s Life on the Ground Floor – letters from the edge of emergency medicine. He observes:
The airway isn’t a real thing; it’s empty space over which a body pulls in wind as breath, then moves it out, vibrating it into cries and words, truths and lies. The hole there, at the vocal cords, is about the width of your smallest finger. I wonder how few of the thousand strangers we pass on the street know this secret, that their entire life depends on something so small?
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