Happy Birthday, Edgar Allan Poe!
In your honor, I post what I had deleted:
I want to hug the Trees. Not a tree. The Trees that gave me Jane Austen.
I want to kiss the ink-smeared blotter of Bronte. Which sister? Pick one.
I want to hold hands with the clock that ticked out the time while Leroux penned "Phantom."
I want to tongue the pen that gave me the Pit and the Pendulum.
If this makes me creepy, I'm proud. Thank you, Edgar!