Since I was asked nicely, I'll give a genuine post, devoid from the dashwatching I was doing before. I've been captivated by some of the earlier works of our so-called Daddy of Gothic, in particular a short piece of lovely rhyme titled “The Lake”. It’s a simple one, only four sweet stanzas, covering a topic I’m sure we can all find ourselves attached to: fucking off and sitting alone by the waterside. Goodness knows there were a few wetter environments I lingered by in my youthful days, though with the modern conveniences, all I have to do to feel a dread from staring into a watery abyss is fill the bathtub a touch too high. Mr Poe certainly feels quite intensely, in those moments: "Death was in that poisonous wave, And in its gulf a fitting grave For him who thence could solace bring To his lone imagining— Whose solitary soul could make An Eden of that dim lake." It’s oh so easy to get lost in the idea of peace in something swallowing us whole; what could be more of a relief from everything than to have it drowned out by an overpowering singular? But I would suggest Edgar should have looked further upwards, towards the Furthest Ring, for such a sensation, instead of tempting the idea of half-drowning in a puddle. #cw-self-harm ? #certainlysomethingclosetothat