So, I picked up a lovely hardbound edition of H.P. Lovecraft complete fiction at B&N the other day, ostensibly to corrupt my childrens innocent minds. But now, in the evening, I find the book inexorably drawn to my own comfortable chair, and my unwilling eyes scanning the accursed words, that twist and curl like feral cats, while outside the bloated efflorescent gibbous moon claws once more feebly at the barren landscape until at last, it is cast - shrieking - into the endless void of the night sky. And I hear those awful shrieks and howls, as if from the end of an inky tunnel of despair, until I come to the appalling revelation that the screams are, in fact, issuing from my own horrified mouth...
Posted on: Tue, 19 Nov 2013 04:00:51 +0000
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