[dear Sir,]

Dear sir, the winds of winter have blown you towards distant harbor. Fast. one two andyouwere gone. but doubt the fact that your trek was consuming I do not. You have stood through piercing winds, battered your chest, ripped your legs- but your hands were never touched- you placed heel to heel, slowly reaching stone tablets, lifted your hand to chin and found a good place to rest. The good city- will be good to you. they will embrace your ink, and consume every word dripped from your pen. A mark of valor sketched into stone, whispered among connecting winds- implosion of particles still remaining. They will then introduce you to the world you once knew. a world you once knew well. but it will not be what you recall. Your words will bring them back (a glimpse into a world before their time) and make them still fight, make them still yearn for the right to be free. The blackened skies have blessed your ink with solemn voice. let it be heard. the people will listen. will follow. May the four winds blow you safely home, Mr. Poe. we’ll be waiting.