THE thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that gave utterance to a threat. After all, this was the first time I'd brought up the issue with Fortunato – just because I was at a 10 emotionally didn't mean he could read my mind.
RODERICK: Somehow I knew we had buried Madeline alive NARRATOR: Wait, really? RODERICK: I've been hearing her scratching at the walls of her coffin for days NARRATOR: Should we go get her, or dig her up, or...? RODERICK: no
read me that dragon story again
Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston, but he perpetually and publicly air-wanked over the city, denouncing it and its literati. As thanks, Boston has so far only commemorated his birth by placing a small plaque on the side of a Boloco, the regional burrito chain whose downtown franchise sits two blocks north of Poe’s now-demolished childhood home. Boloco’s guacamole is very good; there are—I’m pretty sure—no dismembered bodies buried under the floorboards. The
Past Birds of the Month can be found here. Which bird is most like the lilies of the field, which famously toil not, neither do they spin? You might say the cuckoo, which hijacks the nests of other birds rather than toiling over its own. You might say the swan, seeing in its curved neck an echo of the lily's curved white petals. But if you look up the verse about the lazy lilies…
hey where are you? hi where are you? you’re like two hours late it’s almost midnight i can’t get out of the house right now is your car blocked? do you need a ride? no it’s like there’s this bird there’s a bird on your car? no he’s sitting on my statueit’s like mm it just keeps looking at megot those fiery bird eyesyou know? what? fired up…
