Alas, as well you should be... Granted, I am more than qualified 
in the field of journalism. In fact, I excel-- much to the 
chagrin of my detractors. So where is Sparrow, you ask? Why has 
she shirked her responsibility to TRiBE, leaving I, Edgar A Poe 
*courtly bow*, to write her column?

*SIGH*... I just don't know. Mysterious creatures. (Women, that 
is) Misery is manifold. The wretchedness of earth is multiform. 
Overreaching the wide horizon like the rainbow, its hues are as 
various as the hues of that arch-- as distinct too, yet as 
intimately blended. How is it that from that beauty I have 
derived a type of unloveliness?-- from the covenant of peace, a 
simile of sorrow? But thus is it.

It's that woman, I tell you! You deny it?-- Let us not argue the 
matter. Convinced myself, I seek not to convince. Sparrow!-- I 
call her name-- Sparrow! I, living within my own heart, and 
addicted, body and soul, to a most intense and painful meditation-
- She, roaming carelessly through life, with no thoughts of the 
shadows in her path, or of the silent flight of the raven-winged 
hours...

Eh? Do I bore you?? *wide-eyed astonishment* Is it not I who 
suffer? The lady knew her deadline was drawing near as she 
beseeched this most naive and accommodating gentleman you see 
before you *cough* to arrange a gargantuan Christmas party in our 
richly furnished abode, even supplying me with vastly overblown 
guest and shopping lists. She chirped sweetly into my ear 
*blush*... Could I summon the will to resist?? *glug glug... HIC*-
- Nay!

I'm a man of simple tastes, easily pleased. *twitch* And she, as 
is common to the feminine counterpart of God's original creation, 
is vexed with a maddeningly complex and demanding nature. Of 
course, the male species of homo-sapiens (deemed Lords and 
Masters, by divine appointment) *superior smirk* must shelter and 
make allowances for the fragilities of intellect that are 
inherent, but unbeknownst the fairer sex. Only with stern, but 
gentle guidance--

Wh-what do I hear?... Fie, it cannot be! I have, just one quarter 
of an hour ago, exhausted myself with the task of expelling from 
the house the last of the troublesome merrymakers-- Who raps, I 
say?? No doubt it be some fool so sodden with drink, he can 
scarcely lift the door-knocker. Such feeble sounds! *tsk*

Well, I've no time for nonsense. The column looms like a ravenous 
beast while Sparrow naps, unfettered in her chamber, traces of 
brandy still ripening her lips, gown hellishly rumpled from the 
frequent pawing of over-friendly ruffians... and that final dance 
of wild abandon, barefoot in the plum pudding... just before she 
swooned into my arms-- lost to her unwilled euphoric slumber...

*slightly askew grin* Hmmmmm....

Damnation!! Who raps, then taps, and now bludgeons the fine 
mahogony of my door with rude fists?! I cannot write in midst of 
this ruckus, and surely my lady no longer sleeps! I shall end 
this intrusion now and forevermore-- *flings open the library 
door, tramps unsteadily down the corridor, stumbles down the 
stairway... finally approaches the front door*

But suddenly I am seized by a nameless horror, an incalculable 
creeping dread which chills the very marrow of my bones! The 
"visitor", having spent all physical motion in the act of 
pounding the unyielding wood (I pride myself on the strength and 
ingenuity of my house's construction!), has resorted to vocal 
pleas for my attention, and I swear it croaks my name... *shiver* 
Its timbre is shrill, yet gutteral, and its familiarity stands 
my hair on end-- Oh, no! *unbolts and throws open the door*

"Sparrow! My dearest, I personally carried you to your bed. Wha-- 
OW!!"

"Bout time you opened the friggin' door, Edgar-- Been freezin' my 
ass off out here!!"

*rubbin' bruised shins* "B-but... how--"

"That was Crystal Queene you carted off, not me, ya bleary-eyed 
ol' sot! Then, you tossed me out with everybody else. *achoooo!* 
Get that slut outta my bed, now- and clean up this mess! I've 
gotta column to write... *growl*"

*SIGH*...
I ponder well past midnight... dreary
Have I ever felt this weary?
I'm left with all the forgotten chores...
But no doubt this bleak December
I shall forever remember
scrubbing up after those filthy whores

The fire is crackling; I hear her cackling
To the library I go, silently prying the door...
And Sparrow, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
in that chair once occupied by Lenore...
And her eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming
as she pens new words for TRiBE-- I've seen this look before!

Yes, I'm her slave... Forevermore *GRIN!*

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