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Wood Horns die. It’s nothing new. It’s not the death that scares me, at least not at the moment.It’s the sounds.There’s something horrible about the sounds our bodies make when we’re close to the end. There’s something tragic about the children with their chirping lungs, or my mother with her lilts and whistles. It’s almost disrespectful how beautiful our agony translates in air.I’m not afraid of dying. Sometimes, though, I’m scared to open my mouth and risk a sound.