To be or not to be: that is the question I ask myself every morning.

My name is Allan. Edgar, Allan. I am a self-acknowledged poet. The only one who took the road less travelled. The only remaining poet in existence. I wander lonely as a cloud.

It was not always like that.

Once there was water, water, everywhere,
Ink filled pots and words a-flare,
Season of mist and mellow fruitfulness,
But then came the dawn of ruefulness.

Into the valley of death rode the six hundred,
Art of the pen, sullied and sundered,
While I pondered, weak and weary,
My days became dark, gloomy and dreary.

But I have promises to keep,
A genre to weep and a poem as lovely as a tree.
Black as a pit from pole to pole,
I pray that I may only help thee.

With these final words,
My last will has been heard; parting is such sweet sorrow,
I gave it my all, it's been such as ball,
That I shall say good night till it be morrow.

The clock strikes one, my testimony done, my life and all of its toil,
The ink pot is dry, one final sigh before I shuffle off of this mortal coil.

If I should die, think only this of me - I did not go gentle into that good night.

Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all...

~Poe