The mysterious person who has left roses and cognac on Poe's grave on his birthday for the past 50 years failed to show last night.

This is very upsetting. As if we haven't lost enough of our hallowed American traditions (roller skating, wedgies, fraternity hazing, capitalism, bombing third world countries -- oh wait, we still do that one). This is the last straw, really.

But seriously: I love Poe. I loved this mysterious tradition, so in keeping with his tales and stories. I loved that no one tried to fuck with it by, say, tackling the guy or turning it into something gaudy and public with spotlights and news cameras. There are not enough lovely mysteries in life these days and it's depressing to see even a small one crumble.

Oh yeah -- and the numbers, shameful as they are:
0 hrs, 0 words (grrrr work, grrr homework, grrr sleep...)
(...40 days...)