Let out a quiet sigh as he materialized in his personal corner. Summoning forth his book and quill, he set both on the table to take that tome to his focus. Nimble fingers spread cover from page and began to turn through one at a time in steady pace, eyes scouring the recesses of his past works with an unnatural haste. Mentally, he critiqued his own works, running over every single word, each syllable read to himself within the confines of his own mind as he took a sort of inventory on what he had done and had been doing since his summoning. Much of it was uninspired, written as a way to simple cope with the crippling depression that resided over his very being for his entire existence, but there were some gems that made him feel an iota of joy and pride give the slightest of swells to his surely blackened heart. Each of those pieces that managed to bring him to any form of pleasant sensation seemed to have one thing in common and such a thing was not hidden from Edgar's personal understandings. No. Anyone that had known, had been there and had seen these written would've known the circumstances. The setting, surroundings, the very existence of what was around him when his ink caressed those pages with more love and care than the drivel he'd unfortunately put out on more occasions than he cared to admit. It was <b>her</b>. That solitary existence that harbored him and showed him the support and understanding that such a darkened poet truly needed. Craved. Though his consumption of her energies had become such a passive instinct that it rendered the two of them without necessity to be near to one another for such to take place, Poe had found himself, time and time again, coming to not seek her company. To not want to be in her presence because he often felt himself her lesser. That shadowed soul of his compared to the brilliance that gleamed from his keeper was so stark in contrast that he all-too-often couldn't bring himself to surround her in his pain and misery. A shuddered exhale left the author's paled lips and he stopped in his tracks, deciding it time to take a harsher look at what he'd been doing. Not only to himself, but to his Master, who surely must have felt the pain of abandonment with him remaining so scarce to her. Slowed was the breathing that he took on once his mind began to traverse his memories of the time spent with that beauteous creature that kept his spiritual life in her hands. What had he been doing? The smiles that he got from her... the fact that despite the hanging cloud over his head, she happily chose to spend her hours with him nonetheless. Yet... he was denying her that very ability. Was she hurting from such facts? Did she suffer on her own because he was too caught up in himself to be by her side? Was either deserving of the other in their opposite meanings? That despair that was ever inclined in him began to eat away at his thoughts, consuming the reminiscence that he was going through to try and cover him in black. Did he deserve someone with so much potential? Who wanted his companionship? Showed him support? He was such a selfish being that never once did he think to give her what she wanted. Always about himself. About his fear. His insecurities.... Even in the afterlife, he was ever the cruel bastard to all attached to him. Fingers dug at the wood of the table he was seated at, dragging across the surface with enough intensity to rip the layers of flesh from those digits, leaving streaks of crimson in their wake. His jaw clenched, teeth tightening as he felt those stings of self hate rip into his core and he couldn't fight that automatic response of his to have tears roll down his deathly white cheeks. Why must he be so? What possessed him in such a manner to make him this fell cretin that did naught but drum up imagery of the macabre to sate his less desirable needs? His head hung over that book of his, tears spilling onto the pages while ebony locks hid the hurt that his visage could show. Seconds became minutes and that anguish that took over him quickly began to evolve into a fit of blind rage. His left arm shot out and grasped at the stem of that quill he'd summoned formerly, knuckles whiter than normal as he squeezed the item with intensity only to lift it skyward and slam the tip through the back of his right palm, the force enough to completely pierce through to the other end of flesh and even dig its ink-covered end into the table with the need to actually use effort required to pull it from its new home. Not that he tried to. Shaky was his breath as he registered the pain he'd inflicted upon himself with audible sobbing that shook his form. What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he be normal? Why did he have to hurt himself? Hurt Fable? His form trembled with the aching that wept from his body as crimson pooled beneath the surface of his hand. Completely and utterly... he was a mess of a man.