Edgar Allen Poe somber poem written in black ink, still wet – not yet dried – scribed on parchment paper, papyrus. The itching scratching of that raven feather against the grainy table, as candle wax drips down slowly, spilling from the pool accumulated near the circumference of the wick. It is a solitary light and it is all I need to continue setting this scene. The air is musty and still, filled with humidity and the heat of a thousand summer days, even in fall on the prelude to winter it doesn’t get quite as cold as quickly. There is a caw from outside this darkened window. As if the raven knows of these hate crimes and is asking for its feather back; Or perhaps the feather of a fallen brother or sister. Little does this bird know that this feather has been already adulterated by humans. It is a writing tool now, disconnected. This constant cycle of man using nature to his benefit, which I suppose makes sense but is still tragic in a way. The candle reflects weakly in the glasspane of the open window. A clock strikes midnight and bellows out its tune, its information, its mechanical certainty. The bird caws and again, raising its wings and taking off to its nest to return in the morning and haunt this space. A gentle breeze works its way in through the opening, but it brings no comfort.