Talk:Jackson Whittemore/@comment-81.251.223.178-20120730175134

I don't know why, but I keep imagining Jackson slowly dying, his head on Ms. Morrell's lap while she is softly singing a very old french lullaby....

"In the hollow paths of the moor, The black imps, the werewolves, In the night, in a racket, Chase one another like fools. I hear a noise by the door, Close your eyes my little boy, The evil werewolf takes away The children who don't sleep. Sleep, my little man, For near the cradle your mommy Watches over your faint sleep Till tomorrow, till tomorrow, Sleep"...

And yes I know I might be crazy.