Lindsey Graham

You're a reporter, sitting in a dimly lit hall in the Boston Lyceum, where Edgar Allan Poe has just finished performing to a crowd of writers, editors, and literary critics.

You were excited for this assignment, a chance to watch the famous literary star in person, but his performance has left you and others in the crowd stunned.

He delivered a long, nonsensical poem that caused most of the audience to leave in frustration.

As you try to process what you've just witnessed, you see Poe heading for the drinks table.

You seize the opportunity to follow him.

Mr. Poe.

He turns to face you, his dark eyes glinting with mischief.

Yes, my dear.

I'm here tonight with evening transcript.

What was that poem you just read?

It's called Al-Araf.

Would you believe I wrote it when I was just ten years old?

Ten years old?

But you were asked to perform a brand new original poem.

You realize you've left your audience bewildered.

Poe's lips curl into a bitter smile.

Perhaps that was the point.

You stare at him in disbelief.

You were invited here to showcase your talents, not to mock your audience, sir.

I don't care about the opinions of a Boston audience.