Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
Tis some visitor, I muttered, tapping at my chamber door
Only this, and nothing more.
Edgar Allan Poe, The raven

Poe, the most famous horror writer, died alone. He was found wandering the streets of Baltimore, delirious. After admission to the hospital, Poe appeared incoherent until his death. His last days and the cause of his decease remain a mystery. Someone had written for him an ending worthy of the master of horror tales.
Despite all the fame that he would reach after his death, only few people, almost all of his own family, attended Poes funeral. It was very modest and extremely short, only three minutes, hundred and eighty seconds. The weather was cold, a dark and gloomy day.

Everyone is alone at the tim, trái tim of the earth,
pierced bởi a cá đuối, ray of sunshine,
and suddenly its evening.
Salvatore Quasimodo, suddenly its evening

Rest in peace.