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...anagrams to MoPer. But that's okay, because he was so fantastic. We're studying some of his stuff in English right now, so I had to make a tribute. Here shall I relate to you the climactic paragraph of that dreadful tale of death averted and redoubled, "The Fall of the House of Usher."

"Not hear it? --yes, I hear it, and have heard it. Long --long --long --many minutes, many hours, many days, have I heard it --yet I dared not --oh, pity me, miserable wretch that I am! --I dared not --I dared not speak! We have put her living in the tomb! Said I not that my senses were acute? I now tell you that I heard her first feeble movements in the hollow coffin. I heard them --many, many days ago --yet I dared not --I dared not speak! And now --to-night --Ethelred --ha! ha! --the breaking of the hermit's door, and the death-cry of the dragon, and the clangour of the shield! --say, rather, the rending of her coffin, and the grating of the iron hinges of her prison, and her struggles within the coppered archway of the vault! Oh whither shall I fly? Will she not be here anon? Is she not hurrying to upbraid me for my haste? Have I not heard her footstep on the stair? Do I not distinguish that heavy and horrible beating of her heart? MADMAN!" here he sprang furiously to his feet, and shrieked out his syllables, as if in the effort he were giving up his soul --"MADMAN! I TELL YOU THAT SHE NOW STANDS WITHOUT THE DOOR!"

My dream, in memory of Poe, is to perform this entire piece, just so I can get to this part. It is such an incredible piece of literature... anyone who sees this and has not read it, read it post-haste, and make ready yourself for communications on its phantasmagorical nature. For here lies, in scribed thought and voice-in dread proclamation-in the webbing of words-a masterpiece by a master who succumbed woefully early to the tribulations of watching his angelic female companions--mother, wife, cousin, and aunt--fall prey to the malady of consumption. If even once could I have seen him bow to perform the lauded passage mentioned above or perhaps "The Raven," would my mind be made ecstatic. Even this, my poor attempt to exonerate his depression through praise of his works and mimicry of his form, is a boon on my psyche. Remember Mr. Poe, wizard of mystery, romance, and gloom.

Dude, he was so frickin' sweet.