Can't say just what a paper mill with its smoke stack on high has to do with despair, but they both stink-- we could smell them well-- set clocks by dust of moody times. In the end I poked nails in the bubble wrap of our wedding gifts-- just let the raft sink because it wanted to. It was a cold divorce that matched the ice on your mustache. Came from sorrow's indigestion. I knew nothing else to do. Money was one oar I fiddled with in an effort to patch things up. It helped some, but didn't last long or matter much like saving a toe when a brain is gone.