Maybe it's the long winter looming around the corner? Perhaps it's the lengthening of the evening hours that signal the death of summer? Perchance it's simply sorrow for the lost Lenore? I couldn't tell you. But Poe's passion for the macabre (and maybe the love of laudanum) have led you down a dark path this evening. Will the sun ever rise again? In this midnight dreary mood, the answer is unlikely.

Pale ghost lilac and melancholy moonflowers decorate an elaborately antique mahogany table. Fig and clove, wafts of opium smoke hang heavy in the parlor as an open window carries a draft of night air and autumn leaves.


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