As I read into Alias Grace, Edgar is finetuning his absinthe-glazed grin with the horror of murder and bodies disassembled and beautiful women swathed in bloodsoaked sheets. He likes that I write more in period style, with the wafting of dread and the proper formality as is given to man to enjoy. From his perch up above me he watches, like the black raven of doom he so loved as it anguished his own heart–he anquishes mine.
The twit.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
You channel Edgar, I channel Ernest.
We certainly are a pair…*grin
Isn’t that one of the three people you’d want to meet on the other side some day? It’s just kind of neat to think it was possible, though I don’t really believe it.