Praise to you and I this trough of mine is lined with notes that say I was so low when I was born. And when I was born all the windows were closed and the stuffiness had me stuffed with ache and the ache is the engine. Could you imagine a time like this when the snow falls and the lamp lights snag and are dragged in the thick dust? When the ashen veins push out thought and ideas and the last breaths wove in the lung bed? Oh the red gifts sewn in a gorgeous birth are squandered! The unpicked stitch coughed out in the iron air.