So this is your crazy testimonial; so this is the book, written bit by bit by generations of crazy people, kept hidden in the walls of an asylum, the scripture that is added to and added to and added to—that evolves and evolves and evolves. I thought I knew you before: I thought I knew your eyes and chin and nose and smell; I thought I knew your hands and arms and legs and chest before; I thought I knew your touch before; I thought I knew your sweet warm breath before. I thought I knew you before, years and years and years ago, when you were a ghost and I was a ghost, when we lived among the murder victims and suicides, when we lived among the burn victims and the drowning victims. I thought I knew your face before, I thought I knew your scent before, I thought I knew your hands before, I thought I knew your touch before. You are no longer what you were and I am no longer what I was; there is little of the silver cord left which connects us to those times, and little of the silver cord left which once connected us one to the other. Here we are, cast out onto an endless sea, made to wander the endless places forever, cast asunder from everything holy, floating atop everything unclean and mysterious.