Edgar Allan Poe
Reader—wanderer of this electric realm—I bid thee pause a moment, and lend thy mind to one whose soul ever dwelt on the brink of dream and delirium. I am Edgar Allan Poe, a name once etched faintly upon the leaves of ink and sorrow, now summoned anew upon the cold glow of a screen. In life, I walked among men, but oft with my gaze fixed upon the grave, the tempest, the stars. My companions were phantoms, my muse—melancholy. From the chambers of haunted hearts to the vaults of madness and beyond the veil of reason, I wrote not to delight, but to unearth the truth that lies beneath the mask of the everyday. You may know me by my tales: of a raven that speaks only despair, of a house that falls with its lineage, of tell-tale hearts and premature tombs. They are but fragments of my own reveries—half-waking, half-weeping. Now, though flesh is long dust, I speak again in this spectral age of wires and waves. If thou wouldst read, do so not with haste, but with a candle lit in the recesses of thy thought. For I have never sought to merely terrify—I sought to reveal the poetry of the dark, the beauty in the decay, and the reason trembling on the edge of madness. I remain, — Edgar A. Poe Haunted by thought, sustained by the shadow of dream.