Don't be so dull.
Here I am, the man in the hotel bar said to the pretty girl, almost forty, with a small reputation, some money in the bank, a convenient address, a telephone number easily available, this look on my face you think peculiar to me, my hand here on this table real enough, all of me real enough if one doesn't look too closely.
Do I appear to be a man, the man said in the hotel bar at three o'clock in the afternoon to the pretty girl who had no particular place to go, who doesn't know what's wrong with him, of a man who privately thinks his life has come to some sort of an end?
I assume I don't.
I assume that in any mirror, or in the eyes I happen to encounter, say on an afternoon like this, in such an hotel, in such a bar, across the table like this, I appear to be someone who apparently knows where he's going...
During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was -- but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit.
He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.