A rare glimpse of the sun this morning, the bunker is bathed in a warm, almost soothing glow, ordinarily this would make someone feel good, it makes me feel uneasy.

The second night of the weekly sports orgasm is tonight, and things are going from bad to worse. I met a grown man who goes by the name of "Smitty" the other day, and the unfortunate thing is, he seemed proud of himself.

Been contemplating Poe lately, the weather of earlier in the week was ideal for a re-read of "the raven". What sort of mind creates the horror that lives with us a hundred years later. Shelley's was drug induced so it doesn't count. What sort of horrors lurked in the brain of Poe. Was it overwhelming guilt, was it a social dysfunction?

I don't wonder about the modern masters of horror, Craven, DePalma, Carpenter, their motivation is money. However Poe didn't make any money, his thoughts of horror were strictly personal confessions.

THE VALLEY OF UNREST
by Edgar Allan Poe
1831

Once it smiled a silent dell
Where the people did not dwell;
They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
Nightly, from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers,
In the midst of which all day
The red sunlight lazily lay.
Now each visitor shall confess
The sad valley's restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless-
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude.
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
That palpitate like the chill seas
Around the misty Hebrides!
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
Uneasily, from morn till even,
Over the violets there that lie
In myriad types of the human eye-
Over the lilies there that wave
And weep above a nameless grave!
They wave:–from out their fragrant tops
Eternal dews come down in drops.
They weep:–from off their delicate stems
Perennial tears descend in gems.

THE END