And neither the angels in Heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee
- Edgar Allan Poe
Winter in Boston was brief. He drank. Syllables fell, one by one, by the corners of the room. Drops of alcohol. Who remembers the rain fallen across his name?
He leafed all night through ancestral books and found something, nobody knows what, maybe that portrait of Annabel Lee. He drafted it on the shadow-laden windowpane and the room dawned.
"But that is of little worth, the filter only decanted sooner the horror into light, it didn't alter the solitude of days, that night parts from one another, forevermore."