Lulu Miller

Here's some sperm, here's some sperm, I'm up close.

And then from, like, further away, Rambo style, the sneaker male's, like, shooting a ton.

And then he is gone.

The silent male back to the depths, leaving the singing male to care for his babies.

For weeks, the singing male uses his voice to bark away predators, forgoing food so that he emerges as a near skeleton to let the silent male's babies hatch and grow.

As I think about this silent male, I picture him alone and happy and carefree and healthy in the deep.

I see his silence anew.

Like it sounds aggressive, violent, cowardly, deceptive.

But he doesn't sound admirable.

No, he doesn't.

Those words, of course, are not meant for fish, for creatures who have no way other than to behave how they might behave to survive.

Those words are meant for people, people like me, who have the choice to become unsilent.

to heave up from that cozy refuge of silence and risk disinterest, ridicule and attack to sing out what is true in you, what is angry and yearning and real and just might make enough vibrations to change or at least rattle the rusting fixtures of this world.

Thank you guys.

When we come back, we are headed out of the sea and up to the stars.

Lulu.

Latif.

Radiolab.

On with our show about voids.

Okay, so imagine all the lights are off, and you're staring at the stage behind which is the river, behind which is the New Jersey shoreline, and then all of a sudden, a spotlight comes on and illuminates a man standing way up high on a scaffold.