Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.

Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.

The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.

God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.

I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.

Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.

Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm borrowed. Now I'm numb.