If you are one of the few people to buy my book, you'll know that I write a lot about my little brother.

The following is part of the second stanza of a poem entitled Into the Fog. I've been stuck for a third stanza for almost two years now, but I'm waiting patiently for inspiration.

I have also imagined other things.
I have sat and wondered if you felt pain
at the moment of your passing,
or just before. I used to hit myself,
in the months after,
with the flat of my hand
against the side of my head,
as hard as I could, and wondered if it compared.
My palm would redden and throb. I would knock myself dizzy,
and keep going. It terrified me,
and (I will say it, though I know it is trite)
it broke my heart, it breaks my heart,
to know that, if you were conscious,
what my hand can do is nothing.