And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;- This it is, and nothing more.

I have graven it within the hills, and my vengeance upon the dust within the rock.

At three in the morning the gaudy paint is off that old whore, the world, and she has no nose and a glass eye. Gaiety becomes hollow and brittle, as in Poe's castle surrounded by the Red Death. Horror is destroyed by boredom. Love is a dream.

Love is an exorcism of angels.

I blush, I burn, I shudder, while I pen the damnable atrocity.

It__ a case of mistaken identity. It__ one big mistake. You weren__ even in the country when it happened.__aja in the short story 'Metro' by Steen Langstrup