I. I rest my ear to your chest and hear the thudding of foot steps down the stairs, Christmas morning. God is telling me to stop listening. He wants you to wait until 5 am to open the gift that is your rib cage. 5 am is when we bring out the box cutter.

II. I wipe the tears off your face. You clean up good, you look like sunshine, kid. You may be shaking but your bones are as steady and as sturdy as they've ever been. You don't tie something up and tug the strings without a little muscle.

III. I'm looking back, just through the telescope of a few months, and ****, do you ever stop shaking? It's not even winter anymore, maybe the reason your bones are so sturdy is because they're so ******* frozen. Wake that body up boy, it's 75 degrees out. You're not ******* cold anymore.

IV. This isolation you're feeling, it's just a feeling. You've never felt more alone, but here you are, sitting in a room full of people. Maybe you can't see them all, yeah, a lot of them are ghosts, but didn't they teach you something? Anything?

V. Can you offer me any hope at all? None? None?