How could you have married your cousin, people would ask me. I would tell them that love is love like H2O is water, but they turned their heads on me. Because of my love for her, I have been thrown out of the judgmental world we call society, and to tell you the truth, society is a doorway that you can enter but never leave. You must put on your mask, and waltz into the world and pretend that it is a wonderful place, but I know the difference between a nightmare and society, however close they are.


So I sit at my desk, and write of such discrimination. However, I need money because of my love of the bottle, but the publishers will not distribute a story of how people treat me. So I must write stories they will publish: Horror. I used to love to write romantic stories, but after such treatment society has given me, I find myself being wrapped into the dark and dreary ways of literature. I find myself thinking of twisted stories to show my distaste for other people, except for my precious wife.


She would plead with me to go back to my love stories, but that is like telling an apple to be an orange; it cannot be done. I am stuck in my own ways just as paint sticks to a wall. She would plead with me to stop drinking, telling me that it would be the death of me, but as I said, that is like telling an apple to be an orange.


Most people think I am crazy, and I must agree. Who in their right mind could bare society as I do without going a little loony? I should suspect no one. So, as you might have guessed, I am trapped in my house just as a heart is stuck in a body. If I leave, I shall perish on my way into society.

As I said before, love is love like H2O is water, but if you split H2O, it becomes but simple molecules. So that is say that if you split love up, it becomes nothing but broken hearts. I am telling you this because on my particular day in my life, my precious wife passed away, causing my heart to break, just as glass might break.

So I sit outside, and think of how cruel the world is to me, not just society. I brewed in my sadness till a raven swoops close to my front door and knocks down my thermometer. I find it odd that I had written a poem about a raven only the other day, but nonetheless, I go to pick up the glass and the mercury.

As I bend down, I cut my hand on the glass, and then I slip, and my hand goes into the mercury. At that moment, I think of the when my precious wife told me that drinking would be the death of me, but I not. I believe the death of me of has more of a reddish tent.