There’s a man outside my window whistling with the voice of my dead father.
That sounds like something a gunman would say in a black and white western. Or maybe it sounds like the lyrics of a softly sung folk song.
I think I’d enjoy the poetry of the sentence a lot more if there wasn’t a man outside my window whistling with the voice of my dead father.
Paz Spera lives and writes in Buenos Aires, Argentina. She’s also a big fan of referring to herself in the third person.