i was building a fire exit for winter somewhere in the middle of the other me-- and the other me, too. the directions didn't say, "write a few chords in metallurgy, make the doorknob sing in D-sharp minor"; but the hail, like nickel on a maple neck, fretting my senses, searing licks. my voices serpentined, hissed on amphetamine, in a legato that wouldn't let go. and the ice whiting out, new silence slithering in search of more silence.