Dim vales-and shadowy floods- 
And cloudy-looking woods, 
Whose forms we can't discover 
For the tears that drip all over: 
Huge moons there wax and wane- 
Again-again-again- 
Every moment of the night- 
Forever changing places- 
And they put out the star-light 
With the breath from their pale faces. 
About twelve by the moon-dial, 
One more filmy than the rest 
(A kind which, upon trial, 
They have found to be the best) 
Comes down-still down-and down 
With its centre on the crown 
Of a mountain's eminence, 
While its wide circumference 
In easy drapery falls 
Over hamlets, over halls, 
Wherever they may be- 
O'er the strange woods-o'er the sea- 
Over spirits on the wing- 
Over every drowsy thing- 
And buries them up quite 
In a labyrinth of light- 
And then, how, deep! -O, deep, 
Is the passion of their sleep. 
In the morning they arise, 
And their moony covering 
Is soaring in the skies, 
With the tempests as they toss, 
Like-almost any thing- 
Or a yellow Albatross. 
They use that moon no more 
For the same end as before, 
Videlicet, a tent- 
Which I think extravagant: 
Its atomies, however, 
Into a shower dissever, 
Of which those butterflies 
Of Earth, who seek the skies, 
And so come down again 
(Never-contented things!) 
Have brought a specimen 
Upon their quivering wings. 

Edgar Allen Poe


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real life antihero who writes about fictional heroes | always looking for wifi | non-existent sleep rhythm | mid twenty speaking in quotes | elevator's worthyyy but reality's not | smart aleck med | addicted to literature | no place that feels like home, but not all who wander are lost | part of the journey is the end