When I was very young
We used to live at a gas station
Not far from the state line
To the rear of our small house
There were the Black Mountains
Which was something of a misnomer
As the peaks were snow covered
For three of the four seasons each year
My father owned a blue and red gas truck
Which he tended to park away from the station
For obvious reasons as lightning strikes were common
When I was six a stranger with a thick mustache
Stopped at our station as he had developed a flat
He handed my father a white envelope
And instructed that I should not open it
Until I was twenty-one and unmarried
I waited for the next fifteen years
And on a rainy October day
Examined the contents of the envelope
I found a note that was ink faded but readable
It read
He who knows how to breathe the air of my writings
Knows that it is an air of the heights
A robust air
One has to be made for it
Otherwise there is no small danger one will catch cold
The ice is near
The solitude is terrible
The following day I ran away to the sea and have never returned
The ice is near
The solitude is terrible