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A volume of Edgar Allen Poe’s complete works that I have been blessed with receiving. It is bound in what seems to be alligator hide and was printed in 1927 by Walter J. Black CO.

All. Because. You. Couldn't. Google. It.

Every time you spell “Edgar Allan Poe” with “Allen,” a star in the sky collapses into a black hole. The star system implodes. Billions of years in planetary development is lost. Countless extraterrestrial lives vanish.

Six of your eyelashes fall out, your toes retract slightly, your skin becomes slightly looser, every pencil near you breaks. Not the pencil’s core itself, but the graphite within.

At least one eraser in the world turns from “useful” to the faux plastic kind that simply tears the paper.

Every time you spell “Edgar Allan Poe” incorrectly, you are put on a list of folk deserving slow food delivery.

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