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The monicker “Eidolon Night” has been mine since about 7th grade, the golden age of AOL Instant Messenger, an age where a stuttering teenage boy could take the time to plan his exact words without his hormones getting in the way. It was also an age of supposed anonymity and a modicum of privacy.

Like most 7th grade boys, I was an avid reader of Edgar Allan Poe. So when it came time to pick a name, I cracked open my copy of the “Complete Tales & Poems” and let the melancholy of my favorite author guide me.

I know. It’s dramatic.

I’ve found that most people can’t pronounce “Eidolon”, and even fewer can spell it. That’s necessary when looking for a name that you’ll use across the entire internet. Heck, I was even able to purchase (redirects here). You know that you have something unique when the domain isn’t taken.

Why do I still hold the name? Aside from it being unique? You’ll find that the majority of my network profiles all retain this nome de plume for the mere fact that changing the links everywhere would be a terrible hassle. Plus, there’s a convenience that comes with consistency. Whether it’s forums or XBox, I am

Eidolon Night



By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule—
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE—Out of TIME.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the tears that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters—lone and dead,—
Their still waters—still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,—
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,—
By the mountains—near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—
By the grey woods,—by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp,—
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls,—
By each spot the most unholy—
In each nook most melancholy,—
There the traveller meets, aghast,
Sheeted Memories of the Past—
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by—
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.

For the heart whose woes are legion
’T is a peaceful, soothing region—
For the spirit that walks in shadow
’T is—oh, ’t is an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not—dare not openly view it;
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fring’d lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.