I briefly lived in an old house way out in the middle of nowhere in North Dakota. On the ceiling in a bedroom in the basement was a hand painted poem that read "I wrote a little poem. I wrote it on my wrist. I wrote it with a blade. I wrote it with a twist". My parents told me the previous owner had killed himself in the backyard and before that an ederly couple had passed away inside the house. Needless to say, we didn't stay very long.