And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming.
I have immersed myself in the works of deceased authors, and it seems that all of my beloved literary figures have passed on. This sensation leaves me with the impression that whenever I compose a piece of literature, I too am departed, and my words are etched upon my tombstone for eternity.
