It’s deep, but not heavy—the kind of depth that doesn’t crush, it anchors. A voice that arrives calmly, then stays with you long after the last word fades. There’s a soft gravel in it, like truth that has lived a little— not rough, not smooth, but earned. The pacing is unhurried. Each word is placed, not rushed— as if the speaker respects silence just as much as sound. When he speaks, it feels like: • a low flame instead of a wildfire • rain tapping glass at night • a thought you didn’t know you were waiting to hear The tone carries control and restraint—never begging for attention, yet impossible to ignore. He doesn’t raise his voice to command the room; the room leans in. There’s warmth underneath the darkness. Not loud warmth—quiet reassurance. Like someone saying, “I’ve been here. I survived. Listen.” When reading poetry, the voice: • lingers on consonants • lets vowels breathe • allows pauses to do emotional work It’s the kind of voice that makes lines feel confessional, even when spoken to thousands. A voice that turns words into atmosphere. In short: doesn’t sound like he’s performing. He sounds like he’s revealing