Lost to Night, The Second Evening: ACT II
There is no beauty without some strangeness in the proportion
Case File Journal, Number 1071849
It’s always the death of a beautiful woman, and I’ve been doing this too long to hear your arguments to the contrary. Through all my nights and all my days, she walks. Those clients tend to pay more lucratively, though the intensity makes these calls the most difficult.
Come to the veil, but do not go through. I can play this role, though.
The entryway feels like a tomb, but if this is a chapel. I’ve never been in one so large. I can almost touch the past through the portraits on the wall.
And though I’m only inferring it’s a death of a beautiful woman, I know two things for sure:
1) It almost always is, and 2) judging from the gallery I’ve found, she is beautiful.
But there’s more here than death and desire. I can almost hear the sounds of the ocean and the soft flutter of wings-they should only be an echo over the waves, but I think I can hear them. When I focus my attention, it all seems to evaporate.
I’m not sure how, but I’m hearing a memory. Everything around me, in this place, is an echo of the memories that came before me. I…do not know how I can hear them now. I cannot even tell you what to listen for. But it’s there.
It’s always been there.
Case File Journal, Number 1071849
It’s always the death of a beautiful woman, and I’ve been doing this too long to hear your arguments to the contrary. Through all my nights and all my days, she walks. Those clients tend to pay more lucratively, though the intensity makes these calls the most difficult.
Come to the veil, but do not go through. I can play this role, though.
The entryway feels like a tomb, but if this is a chapel. I’ve never been in one so large. I can almost touch the past through the portraits on the wall.
And though I’m only inferring it’s a death of a beautiful woman, I know two things for sure:
1) It almost always is, and 2) judging from the gallery I’ve found, she is beautiful.
But there’s more here than death and desire. I can almost hear the sounds of the ocean and the soft flutter of wings-they should only be an echo over the waves, but I think I can hear them. When I focus my attention, it all seems to evaporate.
I’m not sure how, but I’m hearing a memory. Everything around me, in this place, is an echo of the memories that came before me. I…do not know how I can hear them now. I cannot even tell you what to listen for. But it’s there.
It’s always been there.
Annabel Lee
When Death came in
To steal her from me
I tried to put up a fight
But I was no match
For that figure cloaked in black
And I lost my bride to the night
She was a child, I was a child
In that kingdom by the sea
How cruelly then she was taken from me
My beautiful Annabel Lee
She was singing at her piano
Such a beautiful sight to me
But blood has now consumed our lives
It is dripping from the keys
She was a child, I was a child
In that kingdom by the sea
How cruelly then she was taken from me
My beautiful Annabel Lee
Let me have under her own hand
A letter bidding me goodbye
I may die, my heart will break
But I will say no more
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee (Annabel Lee)
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee (Annabel Lee)
And so all the night tide I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride
In her sepulcher there by the sea
In her tomb by the sounding sea
In her sepulcher there by the sea
In her tomb by the sounding sea
She was a child, I was a child
In that kingdom by the sea
How cruelly then she was taken from me
My beautiful Annabel Lee
A Dream WIthin A Dream
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand —
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep — while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
A Dream WIthin A Dream
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand —
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep — while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
Lost to Night, Midnight: Intermission
Wastes beyond wastes below; But nothing drear can move me
Case File Journal, Number 12181849
I must have slept; I’m in my bed, and I think it’s dusk. I have no memory of leaving and returning, and I cannot remember falling asleep. I remember the palace, and I remember her. But even as I focus, the memories fade into whispers.
Was it all just a dream? This is why I keep a journal, you see. While I’m quite sure I know what is real and what isn’t, I’m not sure my clients do. One must stay…grounded? Or tethered. Tethered feels right.
I think I can hear the sound of the ocean, but that’s ridiculous. I’m hours away from the coast.
The sound though. I’m haunted by the sounds, and…it IS dusk. I’ve lost hours. Where have I been? How did I come home? It occurs to me that wherever I am right now, it’s not home. I was there, and then I lost my way.
I think. This sounds just insane, right? I need real sleep and some tea, I think.
I look out my window, and the night is glowing around me: pale stars and silver moon, and the transition from stillness to alive with shadows and nocturnal serendes.
I’m puzzled-usually, the din of sirens is too loud to hear the nighttime creatures, but tonight, I can hear them all.
Wait.
I can hear them all.
I can see all the shades of black, coiling around everything, I need to get out of here.
But where am I supposed to go?
Case File Journal, Number 12181849
I must have slept; I’m in my bed, and I think it’s dusk. I have no memory of leaving and returning, and I cannot remember falling asleep. I remember the palace, and I remember her. But even as I focus, the memories fade into whispers.
Was it all just a dream? This is why I keep a journal, you see. While I’m quite sure I know what is real and what isn’t, I’m not sure my clients do. One must stay…grounded? Or tethered. Tethered feels right.
I think I can hear the sound of the ocean, but that’s ridiculous. I’m hours away from the coast.
The sound though. I’m haunted by the sounds, and…it IS dusk. I’ve lost hours. Where have I been? How did I come home? It occurs to me that wherever I am right now, it’s not home. I was there, and then I lost my way.
I think. This sounds just insane, right? I need real sleep and some tea, I think.
I look out my window, and the night is glowing around me: pale stars and silver moon, and the transition from stillness to alive with shadows and nocturnal serendes.
I’m puzzled-usually, the din of sirens is too loud to hear the nighttime creatures, but tonight, I can hear them all.
Wait.
I can hear them all.
I can see all the shades of black, coiling around everything, I need to get out of here.
But where am I supposed to go?
The Night is Darkening Round Me
The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me,
And I cannot, cannot go.
The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow;
The storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.
Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.
The Night is Darkening Round Me
The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me,
And I cannot, cannot go.
The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow;
The storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.
Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.
VALENTINE
for her this rhyme is penned, Whose luminOus eyes,
brightly expressive as the twins of Loeda,
shall Find her own swEet name, that, nestling lies
upon the page, enwrappeD frOm every reader.
search narrowly The lines!—they hold a treasure
divine—a talisman—an amulet that must be worn at heart.
searCh well the measure— the wOrds—the syllables! do not forget
the trivialest point, or you May lose your /LabOR!
and yet therE is in this no gordian knot
which one might not undo without a sabre
A half world between what we know and what we fear. A place in the shadows, rarely seen but deeply felt.