paths

edgar allan poe in the fall of the house of usher tells with chilling familiarity of the dark iron grip one is held in when he doesn’t quite realize he’s putting his faith and future in a structure of past glory. the very termites that have eaten most of it are the only binding keeping it in one piece. they and the pathetic antagonist he has been naming his enemy since a year long lost in time.

like norton juster’s wetherman holding an umbrella to keep off rain that seems to pour only on himself, as we near the shaky structure we find that this piece of land is an island of its own, it alone is barren, rotten, the trees bare thin, the trail unused and unwelcoming.

we take a deep breath and step into the cold, mossy, damp, creaking frame within which all are too ill or too weak to leave the place that is the cause of their malady, for they so deeply love the suffering it demands of them

man you should have seen them kicking edgar allan poe