I suffer from a family evil
I am a slave to terror
I have a morbid acuteness of the senses
I only eat the most insipid foods,
Only wear garments of certain textures
The odours of flowers are oppressive to me
My eyes are tortured by faint light
And there are only certain, peculiar sounds,
Like those from stringed
Instruments, that do not inspire me with horror
I dread the future
My little girl is dying
On a cold, dark and soundless day, in the autumn of 1873
My wife and I sat at the bed of our only daughter Roxie
The bleak walls, the decaying trees
The utter depression of the soul
The bitter ghost of everyday life
The icy sinking of the heart
For seventeen years, our Roxie had danced
Danced on the edge of a star (so beautiful)
But following the loss of her own child
A sickness has taken over
Her child was stolen
And she blames herself
She is wasting away
Her liquid eyes, her thin lips, her pale skin
Her spiderweb hair
Floating in front of her face
Little girl, little girl, where's my little girl?
Where's my starchild?
Her father was long gone, an astronomer of some renown
Why did you leave me, why did you disappear?
I bury my face in my hands
Astonishment and dread in the house of Usher
