Is the obsession what is bringing me to the edge of the abyss, or is it what is supposed to rescue me – the last fingernail-hold at the edge? Or like the self-defeating compensations of the neurotic, is it both?
“The gloom of death is on the raven’s wing, The song of death is in the raven’s cries: But when Demophilus begins to sing, The raven dies.”
Edwin Arlington Robinson | “The Raven,” after the Greek of Nikarchos
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