i have turned my home into my hanging place,
in the yard and the fields behind my house, i have turned from life and to dark death. and even now, in this alien shade, as i give way to the force of the blood behind my eyes, i feel myself rise. but not beyond these leafy arms which now hold me to the contract i have made with the rope. and not into heaven do i ascend, nor into hell do i descend, but i am drawn into that upon which i hang as an ornament. stiffen and stretch until my self has left myself and become this tree.
foul twin of Christ's rood (cross), it has become my anti-glory. i will not arise from this into light and angels, but here will i stay and my blood will run as sap through this wood for all eternity or until some untimely axman hewes me down, as i have hewn my life. and i have turned my home into my hanging place.
(thoughts on description of the suicides... dante's inferno)