[WP] After they die, notably influential authors (Shakespeare, Homer, Dickens, Tolkien, etc) get to write whatever they choose into the world's ongoing narrative. It is now Poe's turn.

Christmas, if I recall, was formerly a joyous time to reunite with friends and family, to cut the roast beast, to simply relax. Lately, however, life has taken a turn for the worse. My children walk like the dead, with dark circles under their eyes, muttering about crows and the such all day. My wife, bless her soul, lies in bed on the internet, scrolling through pages and pages of droll and uninspired tabloids, never waking to see the world around. To my great dismay, I appear to be falling into the same dull, lackadaisical pattern of interminable boredom. Even the sight of my favorite team playing in the playoffs cannot spark any feelings within me; the food once delicious to me is now tainted by some unseen rot which seems to consume all I know. I cannot see why or how this all-encompassing depression has slipped its slimy fingers into myself and my family, yet I only hope to rid us of it.

Today I, with great effort, convinced myself to make my way to the grocery store to procure some goods, the manner of which I hoped to excite and delight in, to reignite the whimsy and joy of my childhood. All the meat, however, seemed to be dry and tasteless, with no flavor or texture to speak of. No matter, I thought to myself, I'll simply buy some candy. Unfortunately, after buying a chocolate bar, along with a bag of gummy worms (both of which were far overpriced), I discovered the sweet taste of chocolate seemed to simply sour my mouth, and the gummy worms were too sweet for my liking. Disgusted, I threw the commodities away. How will I regain my happiness?

Perhaps I could turn to the internet? Maybe there is some positive news I might find, something uplifting?

I was a fool to think that. The news was simply full of news of murder in the streets, corruption in the government, and decay in the economy. What is the point, I thought. It seems that nothing is sacred anymore. No religion, no relationship, no knowledge. Everything has been perverted by this societal degradation. I arrived back at my white brick house, unassuming and nearly identical to every other falsely happy white brick house in the neighborhood.

So that is why I write to you today, with my dark ballpoint pen from the mahogany desk in my study. My wife is gone now, she found life to be a rather miserable jaunt, and decided to sate her boredom with the curiosity of death. I, however, still hold hope. Despite my children missing the slightest amount of regret for their role in her death, despite knowing about my mother's failing health, despite my brother's mistress destroying his wife's car, despite my inevitable release from work for my lack of any motivation, and despite my deepest, most irresistible desire being to give up: I chose to carry on in hopes of a better world.