It hangs from the rooftops like daggers nearly touching the ground.
Something ominous hangs in the winter air, a darkness and trepidation that well matches my mood.
It hangs there, waiting for me to step upon this velvet chair where I sit, tie its far descending end to my neck, and step from this world, freeing it from the guilt and troubles Annie Quincy has caused.
Then you ditched your new honey and she's stupid enough to think that's a big loss and goes and hangs herself.
It hangs in my room over a portrait the original of which no one here has seen.