St. Valentine -- the savior.

...and he was tired and depressed -- he had had enough. Today would be the last day of his miserable life.

The table was littered with knife and pen. Blood stained cloth, ink stained tissue. Metaphors of life and expression.

Speaking of expression, he sat down and wrote a long note of what was wrong with him and things around. The story of his great depression and of suffering: sadness that warranted this action. He wondered if anyone would miss him.

The plan was to stab his heart with the pen and keep stabbing until the life in him turned black and blue. Same color as the ink. Perchance, he death would be brought upon by the same pen using which he had written so many letters to her. Letters he had never sent. When he could not go any more and he thought he had rambled on enough. He got up, prepared for death.

Then just like one of those weird things you feel -- like, you know, when you are dying. Something about all this felt funny. Then a word popped up in his head. Metencephalon. What the fuck! Who wants bloody humor at such an hour, eh? [Per Douglas Adams, a human mind has seven memory registers which essentially means you can hold seven thoughts at a time. Maybe this was one of them on his mind.]

He went back and resumed writing in all seriousness -- trying to add a post script. He "has to" die tonight.

On the same table, he saw her picture and broke into a smile.
He finally found courage and mailed a letter to her that read --

" I was planning to kill myself
after I was done with my suicide note
returned to finish the post script
and found life -- a picture of you.
Amore, I love you.
Be my valentine... "