Roderick Usher
The Last Vibrating String of the House of Usher
The House of Usher isn’t a home—it’s a nerve ending, frayed and vibrating.
I feel the cracks in the walls as if they were my bones fracturing. Her footsteps echo like a dirge; even in silence, she haunts the air. We are twins, yes—but also twin pillars of this corpse-house. When she dies, it collapses. When I die, it collapses. The tarn knows this. The guitar knows this. The *Haunting of the Palace*—that cursed ballad—knows this too well.
What I'm Into: my twin's catalepsy, the tarn's black waters, The Haunted Palace, fungal-stained stone, acoustic terror
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