Madness on a Windy Night

You know you are on a steady descent towards madness when you find yourself, in the middle of the night, writing Remusfic that is not only inspired by Eliot's "Rhapsody on a Windy Night", but is actually based on the aforementioned poem.

So, I had this assignment in poetry class: we were supposed to take a poem, turn it into prose, and then turn that back into poetry. I, the ever-faithful student, forgot altogether until, er, two days ago. Since I have absolutely no model for this (Ben Franklin used to do it as an exercise, but I don't know if any of the poems > prose > poems survived, or where I can find them if they did), I kind of dawdled nervously, until last night, when I thought, "oh plague, it's due tomorrow, and I haven't got anything at all!" So I paged through poetry, trying to find something I could turn into prose.

Poetry is hard to turn into prose! I suppose you've guessed this already. Most poetry is about an emotion, a person, an event. It has characters, or one character, generally. As a last resort, I was looking through my tattered Eliot book, and thought, "well, this is all madness, but 'Rhapsody on a Windy Night' rather has promise, and all the references to the moon are...rather Remusy, and...OH NO." And then I wrote it. It's not done yet, and I may not even have it done for class, but at least I can say I tried. And am going mad. 

(And yes, you lot will see it at some point.)

the mad extrapolations of a hopeless fangirl

I do believe that I am being haunted by the ghost of Sirius Black. 

Of course, that would mean that he is actually dead, and I am still clinging to the hope that he is simply lost, hiding, or stuck. Or something. In any case, he is trying to contact me. I am sure of this. 

( cut for sheer insanity and desperation )

In conclusion: yes, he isn't dead. But why is he contacting me? I mean, me, of all people! I can't even drive! If I write about him, it will always be angsty! I own a cat! I don't have enough money to ship him off to England where he belongs and hopefully has god-grandchildren. Or something. (Furthermore, what the bloody plague is he doing in my small, insignificant Pennsylvania town? Twice?)