On October 7, 1849, Edgar Allan Poe succumbed to a mysterious death. Decades pass, and Poe's stories are reprinted several times over and published in books around the world. One such book found its way into the curious hands and intrigued spirit of a young Michael Andriano. The words of dreariness, horror, and darkness in all shades took hold of my very being; I became obsessed and enchanted with the tastefully dark elements of creation. For years, my fascination and fondness for fright and gloom fermented inside of me coupled with the growing agony of a life that was becoming rapidly overshadowed by frequent funerals and mental distress. This torment became the force behind every word typed into every story and every song, which drip with anecdotal and allegorious despair. I do not  hide what I desire: to become the next Edgar Allan Poe and a great writer and artist in my own right. Nothing is more important to me than my dreams, no matter how dreary they are.