Even In The Grave, All Is Not

Sleep, Those Little Slices Of Death — How I Loathe Them.

Perversity Is The Human Thirst For Self-torture.

And Then There Stole Into My Fancy, Like A Rich Musical Note, The Thought Of What Sweet Rest There Must Be In The Grave.

Imperceptibly The Love Of These Discords Grew Upon Me As My Love Of Music Grew Stronger.

In Spite Of The Air Of Fablethe Public Were Still Not At All Disposed To Receive It As Fable. I Thence Concluded That The Facts Of My Narrative Would Prove Of Such A Nature As To Carry With Them Sufficient Evidence Of Their Own Authenticity.