You asked me if I've had a past life that ended with violence. My mind fumbled, my hands played over themselves, trying to rub away the cold. Fumbling, contemplating; I give an answer that I FEEL is true, that just lies there and exists in my mind. I do believe, I tell you, that I've died violently, perhaps by my own hand and by another. I tell you how I think
I may have been raped and murdered, at gun point. I tell you how I think that I've tried to end my life, at another time, by the ocean but at the last moment, I tried to change my mind; but the surf had already gotten me. These things I tell you.
My mind stumbles to the color yellow,