When we began to love each other, in my mind, I saw a room. The bedroom of an old farm house; windows open, and soft, pale, green curtains moved lazily about the sills. Light of late afternoon slipped in, whilst a faint, blue summer sky waited outside. The door to the hallway is open; the rest of the house - still. A bed is the only piece furniture in a room with wood floors and white walls. There are only sheets on the bed, old cotton sheets, heavy, limp, and cool. This room was our togetherness. Since he died, I am not in the room, and light in it is cooler. It is evening and no one is home.

I am waiting at the door of the story with peaches in my hands. The door is shut, and the peaches are unripe. None of their warmth and sweetness can be smelled, their fuzz clings to them like tight new skin. When we wait patiently for things to open, we stay with them and be, and they ripen, and the door opens. I wait for the peaches and the door as they wait for me. A story through that door will show me and harm me, it is with peaches I may come through.

I was a small child when my mother told me a story of peaches. When I remember it, I remember the peach tree across from our old house. Short and squat, with shining, skinny leaves; the tree crouched in the rose garden. My mother told me about the peace and bliss of heaven, and that when we went there we became angels. She told me that angels longed for the earth sometimes, and have bodies, because angels cannot taste peaches.

When I taste and smell peaches now, I try to give myself over to them, to live and feel the taste of them, to not take them lightly, to not keep them foreign. The day that he died, I found a nectarine in the kitchen, and carried it with me, praying to it to keep me in the world of life, to remind me that moments of peaches are worth the pain of aliveness.

Every story starts with the breaking off an indefinite number of things that have come before. To try and tell the story of Lucien from the beginning, means I will omit the stories of before, the peripheral stories which came before and bled into his, like color on wet paper.

I suppose there are so many ways of telling a story. Not one will be perfect, but each is a prayer. Can you feel this? Can I make something? Are our lives commensurable? Do my words mean what your words mean? We shall see.

This story, too, is a prayer.

A prayer for a new house, a new tree, and a new beginning.

~ ~ (on front of envelope)

La lettre que voici, ô bon facteur,
Portez-la jusqu'à la ville de NICE,
Aux ALPES-MARITIMES (06).
Donnez-la, s'il vous plaît, au Receveur

Des Postes, au bureau de NOTRE DAME.
(Son nom? C'est MONSIEUR LUCIEN COQUELLE.
Faut-il vraiment que je vous le rappelle?)
Cette lettre est pour lui et pour sa femme.

I won't lead English postmen such a dance;
Just speed this letter on its way to FRANCE.
Sender's address you'll find on the reverse.

~ ~ (and on the back)*

At Number 7 in St Swithun's Road,
Kennington, Oxford, there is the abode
Of me, Paul Hansford, writer of this verse.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -
For non-speakers of French, the first bit goes approximately -
"Dear Postman, Please take this letter to the town of Nice, in the département of Alpes-Maritimes, and give it to the postmaster at the Notre-Dame office. (His name? It's Lucien Coquelle. Do I really need to remind you?) This letter is for him and his wife."

I lie on my back at midnight
hearing the marvelous strange chime
of the clocks, and know it's mid-
night and in that instant the whole
world swims into sight for me
in the form of beautiful swarm-
ing m u t t a worlds-
everything is happening, shining
Buhudda-lands,
bhuti

blazing in faith, I know I'm
forever right & all's I got to
do (as I hear the ordinary
extant voices of ladies talking
in some kitchen at midnight
oilcloth cups of cocoa
cardore to mump the
rinnegain in his
darlin drain-) i will write
it, all the talk of the world
everywhere in this morning, leav-
ing open parentheses sections
for my own accompanying inner
thoughts-with roars of me
all brain-all world
roaring-vibrating-I put
it down, swiftly, 1,000 words
(of pages) compressed into one second
of time-I'll be long
robed & long gold haired in
the famous Greek afternoon
of some Greek City
Fame Immortal & they'll
have to find me where they find
the t h n u p f t of my
shroud bags flying
flag yagging Lucien
Midnight back in their
mouths-Gore Vidal'll
be amazed, annoyed-
my words'll be writ in gold
& preserved in libraries like
Finnegans Wake & Visions of Neal

Following are several translations
of the 'Old Pond' poem, which may be
the most famous of all haiku:

Furuike ya
kawazu tobikomu
mizu no oto

        -- Basho



Literal Translation

Fu-ru (old) i-ke (pond) ya,
ka-wa-zu (frog) to-bi-ko-mu (jumping into)
mi-zu (water) no o-to (sound)






    The old pond--
a frog jumps in,
    sound of water.


Translated by Robert Hass



Old pond...
a frog jumps in
water's sound.


Translated by William J. Higginson



An old silent pond...
A frog jumps into the pond,
splash! Silence again.


Translated by Harry Behn



There is the old pond!
Lo, into it jumps a frog:
hark, water's music!


Translated by John Bryan



The silent old pond
a mirror of ancient calm,
a frog-leaps-in splash.


Translated by Dion O'Donnol



old pond
frog leaping
splash


Translated by Cid Corman



Antic pond--
frantic frog jumps in--
gigantic sound.


Translated by Bernard Lionel Einbond



MAFIA HIT MAN POET: NOTE FOUND PINNED TO LAPEL
OF DROWNED VICTIM'S DOUBLE-BREASTED SUIT!!!

'Dere wasa dis frogg
Gone jumpa offa da logg
Now he inna bogg.'

        -- Anonymous
        

Translated by George M. Young, Jr.



Old pond
leap -- splash
a frog.


Translated by Lucien Stryck



The old pond,
A frog jumps in:.
Plop!


Translated by Allan Watts



The old pond, yes, and
A frog is jumping into
The water, and splash.

Translated by G.S. Fraser

Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
     Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy!
     The nose is holy! The tongue and **** and hand
     and ******* holy!
Everything is holy! everybody's holy! everywhere is
     holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman's an
     angel!
The ***'s as holy as the seraphim! the madman is
     holy as you my soul are holy!
The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is
     holy the hearers are holy the ecstasy is holy!
Holy Peter holy Allen holy Solomon holy Lucien holy
     Kerouac holy Huncke holy Burroughs holy Cas-
     sady holy the unknown buggered and suffering
     beggars holy the hideous human angels!
Holy my mother in the insane asylum! Holy the *****
     of the grandfathers of Kansas!
Holy the groaning saxophone! Holy the bop
     apocalypse! Holy the jazzbands marijuana
     hipsters peace & junk & drums!
Holy the solitudes of skyscrapers and pavements! Holy
     the cafeterias filled with the millions! Holy the
     mysterious rivers of tears under the streets!
Holy the lone juggernaut! Holy the vast lamb of the
     middle class! Holy the crazy shepherds of rebell-
     ion! Who digs Los Angeles IS Los Angeles!
Holy New York Holy San Francisco Holy Peoria &
     Seattle Holy Paris Holy Tangiers Holy Moscow
     Holy Istanbul!
Holy time in eternity holy eternity in time holy the
     clocks in space holy the fourth dimension holy
     the fifth International holy the Angel in Moloch!
Holy the sea holy the desert holy the railroad holy the
     locomotive holy the visions holy the hallucina-
     tions holy the miracles holy the eyeball holy the
     abyss!
Holy forgiveness! mercy! charity! faith! Holy! Ours!
     bodies! suffering! magnanimity!
Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent
     kindness of the soul!

                                   Berkeley 1955

after noon, awake now
for eight hours with
another twelve awaiting.
a sweating summer for
advancement of 'talented
young author'; reading,
writings, and ennui towards
those not wanting to be
found in sight. Lucien
stabbed his twice in the
chest, then weighted and
drowned the body feigning
dead. insanity claimed,
a brilliant success to freedom
after emaciating and claiming
another's mortal soul. claimed
was blood-stained Lucky Strikes,
and Lucien smoked the last one.

It was chilly in the house of stone
where the body of Maud’s  son
had been interred the year before.
(Her first born had died young.)

Her lover was a Frenchman,
Maud Gonne was her name.
She was, of course, a famous muse-
as William Butler’s flame.

She let down her golden hair
and her clothing came undone.
Lucien lay a blanket down
on the gravestone of their son.

She lay her naked beauty down
and took a passive role--
convinced the child conceived that night
would have her dead son’s soul.

Mystic occult spirits danced
as mortal flesh entwined.
Lucien spasmed flush with lust
Maud called on the Divine.

In course of time a girl was born
a child of beauty rare
But that she held her brother’s soul
none can, for sure, declare.

My Love. I can only hope that this writing may help you understand my craziness.
I love  you.

Sometime ago while you were away and the thought of ever being with you was put away, I was happily in a
relationship. One that I thought was going pretty well. She was attractive in her own right, smart with ambition, aspiration, she liked my friends and family and they liked her also. We went to classes together, lived in the same complex and saw each other often.

Life was going great. We even spent the night at each others places, rotating here and there. Though she did move a bit too quick for me, in that she wanted to get married. I thought the idea of that was all too sudden and that we should wait on that. I was uncomfortable with it but thought to only give it a few years. She partied with us, got smashed with us and during some of our parties guys would hit on her and I would have to tell them off. Some even tried to fight and I hit guys and fought for her. Even some of my good friends confessed to "slapping her ***" noting that it was inappropriate and wrong of them to do so and willingly requested me to hit them in return. And i did. That's how things were and still are.

Though this was all before you, you were still in my thoughts. She and I socialized a lot by hanging out with lots of friends and went to all kinds of parties. Even though I've never been the "party type", I went for her and for my friends. On a whim, we went to a tattoo and piercing place where she got a tattoo and talked me into getting a piercing. I no longer have the piercing but a scar remains and I look up it and question...why the hell...

She hung out with people outside of us. Either from school or work. I never thought anything of it. It never occurred to me that I should be a bit concerned. I trusted her completely. Then one night while my roommates and i were hosting a party she wasn't there. She was in Franklin watching the new twilight film at the Theaters.
While i stepped outside to smoke and just as I was lighting my cigarette, one of my friends stepped outside also. He lit one up also and asked if we could speak. I said "sure whats up?" He said that he hopes that I respect him just as much as he respects me and asks that I don't get angry at him. "Of course", I said, even more curious and confused than I was before. With his cigarette in one hand he grabbed my shoulder with the other, looked me deep in the eyes and said. "what if I told you she wasn't at the Theaters watching the film? What if I told you she was seeing someone else?"

I told him that I respect him and that he's trying to look after me and for that I thank him. But I told him that I can't believe him and must doubt him, even though he has it on good authority she is cheating. Soon thereafter I began to notice a change in her that I didn't see before. The thought of what he told me, slowly eating at me and breaking me down.

Then while at work on Christmas Eve I received a text from her saying that we could no longer be together. I asked why and she tried everything to make me believe that she wasn't ready for a relationship. But nothing she was saying to persuade me was lining up. She finally confessed, confirming my every fear. She had been cheating on me...for months. Driving the knife deeper into me and worse more, she didn't care. She felt no remorse. My world was shattered. I had so much trust in her I felt like a fool at that moment, remembering what my friend had told me. I should have believed him there. I could hardly breathe, I felt weak, torn and vulnerable. I have not spoken to her since that day. I never will.

Soon after that, I hung out with the friend who had warned me of the impending doom that I chose to ignore. I apologized to him face to face. There's no other way that could have been done, to show my apologies and thankfulness for having someone like him.

I know that all this emotional baggage I bring has hurt you and distraught you love. I just wanted to shine a light  for you on why I am the way I am. To show you why the "red flags" pop up. How it's hard for me to agree to the things that you do. I know with your help I can overcome this and suffer this no longer. It will take time and patience. I hope you can forgive me for being so messed up. I love you so very much and I always will.

-Auf ewig dein.

-Lucien

She is blue raspberry slushee tongue
Meets feminist rant.

She is Moon Pie wrapper personified.
She is purple lipstick stains on wine glasses
Filled to the brim with cranberry juice.
She is three cats, one bed.

She is a scratch in your favorite record during your favorite song.
She is bubblegum bubble pop,
She is the definition of hypochondriac.

Curiosity didn’t **** her,
She killed curiosity.

She is dry heaving into the toilet bowl,
Claw marks on the inside of her stomach.
She is naproxen sodium
Swirling down throat,
Gagging up bullet sized pills.

She is the other side of unrequited.

She is no ones favorite poem.
She is her own favorite poem.

She is perpetual headache.
She is screaming for justice.
She is the jersey devil episode of the X-Files,
In other words,
She is a hot mess.

She is nature walks cut short due to laziness.
She is laziness.
She is lay in bed all day,
Drown in the sheets.
She is too many books, not enough time.

She is funeral song at a wedding.
She is dethorned rose, declawed cat.
She is waking the dead.

She is a renaissance painting come to life.
Botticelli would cry if he saw her,
His Venus,
Splashing in the water.

She is Jezebel mourning Ahab.
She is Jezebel being eaten alive.

She is ankle deep dimple.
She is never could quite get the words out.
She is lip bite, blood drip.
She is covered in bruises and she likes it.

She is listerine flavored whiskey,
She is a shot glass of formaldehyde.

She is an oak tree,
Thats what her sister tells her.

She is the x on the back of an 18 year olds hand.
She is conspiracy theory.
She is playing possum.

She is change the subject.
She is cry when being yelled at,
Cry when no one is looking,
Cry when everyone is looking,
Cry because theres nothing else to do.

She is leather jacket in july.
She is crop top and mini skirt.
She is lullaby.
She is dancing to the Law and Order theme song.
She is 8,000 tweets.

She is see how long she can go without talking.
She is goes so long without talking
That now she can’t talk.
She is novocaine needle pock mark.

She is her own mythology,
Her own god.
She is fire breathing dragon.
She is knocking on god’s door
Until blood erupts from her knuckles.
She is asking why.
She is Persephone feasting on pomegranate seeds.

She is two siblings in the hospital.
She is “call if you don’t feel right”.
She is disassociative personality disorder,
At least thats what she’s convinced she is.

She is anxious laughter,
Anxious smile.
She is sewing her lips shut.

She is only 11 Instagram likes.
She is learning to love herself with the lights on.
She is sleep to much,
Sleep too little.
She is curl on cheekbone.
She is protruding rib bone.
She is hip bones cutting glass.

She is Lilith saying no.
She is leading the serpent to the garden.

She is vegetarian on moral grounds.
She is not telling her doctor she is a vegetarian
Because what if its bad for her?

She is fate and destiny making out under the bleachers.
She is making nooses out of ****** strings.
She is choke on your own saliva.
She is burnt tongue tip.
She is puking in the parking lot of her dentist’s office.
She is a 1997 themed mixtape.

She is a stanza curving like a lovers back.
She is chapped lips.
She is brick through the window.
She is suffocating on suburban ideals.

She is Anne Sextons ***** bottle.
She is Maya Angelou’s silence.
She is Lucien Carr’s ****** knife.
She is Sylvia Plath’s last manuscript before
She stuck her head in the oven.

She is three am,
Get out of bed.
She is snow in september.

She is poetry.
She is poet.
She is music in fingertips,
Songs molded from simile.
She is metaphor flavored kisses
And a witchcraft tongue.

She is a girl crafted of stories.
A collection of make believe.
She is breathing passion.
She is daughter of nothing,
Lover of everything.
She is afraid of scorpions.
She is the venom.

She is a violin heart screeching out its last note.

Teil I (Part I )

Oh, come and show me,
what life is like without roses,
how a river would run,
with no water for it.

What would it be like,
if we had no sun,
to brighten our day,
not just for us but everyone.

How would the night feel,
if the moon never shined,
the beautiful blue,
the midnight diamond.

Oh, come and show me,
how this world would be,
if birds never sang,
their songs to you and me.

Oh, come and show me,
how it would be,
if animals never roamed,
this world deemed free.

Would the stars still shine,
on a world like such,
their brillant glow,
their peaceful touch.

If the roses never blumed,
would it still be spring,
if it never snowed,
would it still be winter.

Oh, come and show me,
how it would be,
if a waterfall stopped,
moving freely.

If we never rotated,
around the sun,
would the seasons still change,
or would we burn.

If the wind never blew,
across our land,
over the mountains,
and through the sand.

Would there still be a breeze,
that we could feel,
or just our imagination,
making it real.

Oh, come and show me,
how this would be,
if all of this happened,
would you be ready?

Teil II ( Part II )

Oh, come show me,
what is real,
if a mirror was broken,
would it still your reflection reveal.

If you stood outside,
and the sun didn't shine,
just lingered there,
would there still be a shadow.

The beautiful ocean,
the golden sea,
without sealife,
how would that be.

If all we built,
came crashing down,
nothing left,
all on the ground.

Would we be ready,
how would you see,
this world,
how you've made it to be.

What it something so beautiful,
suddenly caught fire,
as soon as you took the time,
to sit and admire.

What if the stars we love,
never shined,
lingered there in the dark,
hanging in the night.

What if we are a moon,
to a bigger planet,
how would that be,
could you withstand it.

Oh, come and show me,
the mountain morning dew,
only if the sun,
would come and go.

Teil III ( Part III )

Oh, how would it be,
if the leaves never fell from the tree,
if the grass never shivered,
from the cold winds breeze.

How would the sky be,
if it were a different color,
no clouds to see,
or covered in darkness.

If rain never fell,
how would anything grow,
what if in a cold winter,
it never snowed.

Oh, come and show me,
this world we live in,
how it is,
and how it could have been.

Oh, come and show me,
what it would be like,
if the sun never rose,
if it never became night.

OH, come and show me,
what you would see,
if the world stopped turning,
would you be ready.

Teil IV ( Part IV )

Oh, come and show me,
what life would be like,
if time suddenly stopped,
the end of our clock.

If there was no music,
would we still dance,
if there was no opportunity,
would there still be a chance.

If we had no soul,
would we still have passion,
if we had no heart,
would we still long for loving compassion.

If the eyes saw,
what they were meant to see,
would we understand,
how it's to be.

If the flowers of spring,
never gave their sweet scent,
would our noses,
still be able to smell it.

If all we thought,
suddenly became right,
if our once peaceful dreams,
woke us with terror in the night.

Oh, come and show me,
this very thin line,
of which we lay upon,
Frozen Time.


By, Lucien Freeman

Spank me
Mrs Cleves said
it was all part
of her ****** foreplay

rather than some
Freudian slip
of a childhood probing
stuck inside

her head
OK
Baruck said
willing to oblige

to keep the show
on the road
the game in play
and she

19 years older
and 15 pounds
heavier
and he a novice

of the way it goes
the music
from the lounge
easing through the air

the wine seeping
through his head
trying to keep her words
and image

and her body
on the bed
she above him
he beneath

wondering what
the priest would say
if seeing him now
hand pounding flesh

moving to the music
and lust
doing
what a young guy

must
the Mahlerian
symphonic sounds
the sounding springs

the echoing voice
of her demands
and needs and pleads
come on more more

Mrs Cleves said
and he recalls
that Lucien Freud painting
he'd seen

of the fat dame
lying on a couch
naked as the day
she was born

seductively reclined
her huge *******
and ample flesh
her body crushing thighs

and thinking such
he smiled
and closed his eyes
and thought of Rome

and the Roman ******
he'd read of somewhere
and the smell of perfume
and wine

and he and she
moving
quickly and sexually
there.

The pain kreeps up his body,
not from physical damage,
He sits in the room with others,
but they are unaware of it.

He feels like he is dancing,
though he's not moving to the eyes of other men,
Misery as his companion,
she'll dance with him to the end.

They all play fool,
to the pain he feels within,
Noone can see the harm,
doing fine he makes it seem to them.

But while the others are dancing,
he stares at a single candle,
watching the flames flickering,
The misery he can't seem to handle.

When he is approached,
his dull face forms a smile,
They try to make small talk,
but it doesn't seem worthwhile.

In the corner of the room,
with a rain cloud above his head,
he's the only one who can see it,
and wishes he was dead.

He glances all around,
watching through the crowd,
finds a pair of eyes,
that are as dark as the midnight sky.

These eyes he found,
he knew they didn't belong to any mortal,
though they all play fool,
to this woman who joins them in the circle.

Everywhere he moves,
so does the woman,
as if he is playing a game,
of hide and go seek.

He searches through the entire house,
to find an isolated room,
One where he'll be alone,
where he cannot be disturbed.

As he sinks into an armchair,
that lovingly faces a warm fire,
he still feels the cold,
that he from misery aquired.

As he slowly into his thoughts drifts,
closing his eyelids,
When all was quiet so it seemed,
The man slowly began to dream.

There in his dreams he did find,
the same woman with the dark eyes,
She held out a hand as if to dance,
thought did the man now was his chance.

Accept her hand he did and began to move,
swaying gently around the room,
his hands on her hips lovingly embraced,
a warm smile was upon her face.

Without any music they danced romanticaly,
Just each other is all they would need,
The man thought this was so perfect,
Surely something he would never forget.

In reality he laid on the floor,
people all around him watching in horror,
The mans body violently shook,
His heartbeat racing as everyone looked.

People there questioned his actions,
Was it insanity or human body reactions,
Was this man going to be alright,
would he make it through the night?.

Back in his dreams he was still dancing,
Though his heartbeat was dangerously rising,
then leaned in the woman to kiss,
and together perfectly they locked lips.

Now laying on the floor is the man,
Whose heartbeat has sadly come to an end,
Though they never knew the reason why,
There in the corner of the room, was the woman with the dark eyes.

by ~Lucien Freeman

I sit here and stare in silence,
the air around me heavy and thick,
I cannot speak a single word,
my thoughts are racing.

I keep them in,
for I cannot express,
without sounding like,
such a madman.

My pen and paper,
so far my only release,
I don't know yet how to be vocal,
writing. My peace.

I think of things,
some good, some bad,
I think of the future and past,
and of the time at hand.

At times I just stare,
I cannot write a word,
My mind far past my pen,
For what seems like hours, unheard.

It's only been a few hours,
since I've seen you last,
but missing you makes the time,
slowly, painfully pass.

How empty I feel,
without your touch,
your grace, your presence.
I miss you so much.

I'm slowly losing my mind,
my hands idle, my mind busy,
again I sit here,
again in silence.

Forever and a day,
or so it seems,
Til I will see your face,
and the smile you bring.

But as I sit here,
the air around me heavy and thick,
I exhale and rest,
wishing you were here.

~Lucien Freeman

Here I sit in silence,
unbroken, and diligent.
Around you not a word,
nothing is spoken.

For I have learned,
to hold my thoughts dear,
keep them inside,
your words I don't want to hear.

Sharper than knives,
more vile than poison,
The mask of lies,
the path you've chosen.

I've never felt so,
until you made it be,
your words so cold,
killing, slowly, painfully.

Do you not see,
How you are?
How we perceive,
your malicious nature?

Like acid,
every word, a single drop,
burning slowly through the skin,
another word, another drop.

You may become still,
silent for the moment,
however the burn continues,
when words are unspoken.

Why can't you change,
do you not see what you've become,
reveal your true face,
the one you cover.

I wish sometimes to tell you,
I try so hard to reveal,
how you have hurt me,
your words, your evil.

But to show you,
would hurt you,
it would cause you pain,
I don't want to fan the flame.

I can't hurt you,
like you have me.
That is not who I am,
or who I want to be.



Schmertz-Lucien Freeman

OK so as an avid book lover when I find a series that I really. Really get attached to and I can read it over five times and still enjoy it. (Yes I have done that before.) It is great. Now that being said I have a series its a really good series. You don't need to know the name of it or such. But that's not the point this series officially has four books. Four books. Now there's no problem with that. BUT. There is the first three books. You know what. Anyone in here watch Naruto? Or read it. You know all of those useless episodes. Or how its like dragon ball Z where it takes five episodes in the order of. Screaming. Screaming. Screaming. SCREAMING.  Kick. Well back to my point. The first three books. Are all over three hundred pages. And this by far is my favorite series. So I loved the first three books. But I wasted my money on the fourth. I was so ready. I waited two years. Two literal years. Pre ordered it. Paid express two day shipping. Just to get a thin book. By thin I mean it was barely over two hundred pages. And it was just. Just. It was bull! I waited two years. I waited two years for an official release date. Then I waited to see the cover. And it looked beautiful but it was just a sugar coated lie covered in fire ants! I wanted to see what happened between Nesta and Cassian I wanted to see if my ship sailed. I wanted to see if Elain picked Azriel over Lucien. I didn't care about Feyre and Rhys having a kid. That was bound to happen. I didn't care about a painters studio being opened. Not when all of you just fought against Hybern and barely lived! I wanted MORE THAN THIS. Instead you just left me disappointed and unsatisfied. This fourth book was like anyone of you. Wondering out of bed. Getting something out of the fridge. Putting it in the fridge and listening as it makes the loudest sounds ever almost waking up the whole house. You burn your finger a bit getting it out. You get a spoon or a fork and you start eating. Just to find out that its cold. It is colder than the iciest depths of Antarctica. This is what that book was like. Can you feel my disappointment rolling off in bone crushing waves?!