The problem with your life,
Mr. Poe said to me, is that it
lacks mystery. And so,
you must invent it.
May I call you Edgar Allan? I asked,
to which he nodded. But how
does one invent a mystery for oneself?
If I am the inventor, that means I know
all about the scheme, and, therefore,
it is no mystery to me.
Ah, that is the crutch of the matter,
Crutch? How can that be the crutch,
like a tool one uses to help you walk
when you have a broken leg?
You misheard me, he said. I said
crux of the matter. And I think your
leg isn’t the only thing
I looked down at my legs and saw
that neither was broken. It was
undoubtedly a mystery.