“When the tongue is digital, does the word still breathe?”

This isn’t a simple riddle. It’s a paradox that coils around itself. In spoken words, breath is life-the speaker’s spirit exhaled into sound, carrying intent, agenda, or truth. But when the tongue turns digital, words become constructs of code, tapped out or algorithmically spawned, crossing oceans without a whisper of air. Do they still live, pulsing with the essence of their maker? Or do they drift as shadows, shaping our reality without the warmth of human breath? It’s a question that mirrors our talk of control-how language bends us, how the digital amplifies this power, yet strips it bare. There’s no resolution here, only a challenge: to sit with the tension and ask what it means to speak, to hear, to be, when the very medium of our words has shed its flesh.

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