“Je voudrais que mon écriture soit aussi mystérieuse qu'un chat”

 

November, 25th

If only I could needle together two phrases like those… 

[…] Distinct, coldly, calmly distinct, fell those few simple sounds
within my ear, and thence like molten lead rolled his singly into my
brain. Years, years may pass away, but the memory of that epoch
never. Nor was I indeed ignorant of the flowers and the vine, but
the hemlock and the cypress overshadowed me night and day. And I kept no reckoning of time or place, and the stars of my fate faded from
heaven, and therefore the earth grew dark, and its figures passed by
me like flitting shadows, and among them all I beheld only Morella…

The winds of the firmament breathed but one sound within my
ears, and the ripples upon the sea murmured evermore  “Morella”.

But she died; and with my own hands I bore her to the tomb; and I laughed with a long and bitter laugh as I found no traces of the first in the
channel where I laid the second. Morella…

Nothing to say today. That paragraph sums my life.  Poe, I owe you my life..

“Je voudrais que mon écriture soit aussi mystérieuse qu'un chat” 

Mr. moustache