The back of the church was raised up from the ground. Tossed in among its supports were what looked like moldering bones.My heart ached so much for these poor souls, neglected even after death, I turned away to head back, but managed only a few burdened steps.I drew up abruptly and froze.An old, worn marker, standing off by itself, grabbed at my heart.It was Edgar Alan Poe.He fit in so perfectly there. Maybe I did, too. His sorrow and pain ate through me as I stood, head lowered. Can’t even death let us step away from our darkness? It was like he was scratching a warning into the dirt with his finger, and meant it specifically for me. Don’t wait around for sermons to wash you clean, he seemed to say, for death or drugs to close your eyes. God won’t come roaring in with fresh troops to drive away the darkness we’ve walled our own souls up in. He didn’t put us there; we’ll have to dig ourselves out.I looked at my own life as I stood there, feeling buried alive, like some of his characters.But unlike his characters I had caught a flash of hope.

While doing an enquiry on renowned horror author, “Edgar Allen Poe” I was astonished to notice how more successful his biographical books sold compared to his own books.

He tried to get drunk, “to forget about life for awhile,” as that oldBilly Joel song once said, but the scotch couldn't anesthetize his painand provide a retreat from the reality of his latest failures.

Every moment of the nightForever changing placesAnd they put out the star-lightWith the breath from their pale faces.

After reading Edgar Allan Poe. Something the critics have not noticed: a new literary world pointing to the literature of the 20th Century. Scientific miracles, fables on the pattern A+ B, a clear-sighted, sickly literature. No more poetry but analytic fantasy. Something monomaniacal. Things playing a more important part than people; love giving away to deductions and other forms of ideas, style, subject and interest. The basis of the novel transferred from the heart to the head, from the passion to the idea, from the drama to the denouement.

You rupturedthe love lakes of my longingand scattered the continents of my heart.

Lady Ligeia,' he began again, 'is a woman in the literature who returns from the dead, taking over another woman's body to be with her true love.'Oh, yes. Lovely' Isobel blanched. 'I guess the other chick didn't mind at all?

A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.

P—Jamie!” I called. He waded back toward me. “I’m starting to think my name is Pajamie.” “Your name should be Pajerky. You said it wasn’t deep.” “Pajerky?” He gave me a skeptical look. “That’s Pathetic.” “We’ll see how smug you are once I’m on dry land.

It illuminated a vision Dante could not have imagined in his wildest nightmares, nor Poe in the grasp of an uncontrollable delirium.