“In his house at R’lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming…”
Late one stormy night, while I solaced my troubles with grain alcohol, perched in my ivory tower, I thought to quiet my raging mind with some harmless Hellenistic architectural draftsmanship. Hardly had I put quill to paper before I felt an inhuman intelligence seize my right hand and compel me to scrawl against my will. Visions of strange landscapes filled my brain unlike any to be seen on this earthly sphere, planes without surfaces, an alien geometry embodied in rules no human mind could decipher, bizarre pyramids and inverted ziggurats devoted to the worship of foreign gods exiled to the furthest reaches of outer space multitudes of millions of eons before man’s fishy ancestors struggled out of a lukewarm sea onto the hot, stinking sand. And the mind made me draw that horror.
Or is it just that I still can’t draw worth beans? You decide!
“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.” Or, have a nice day.
I had absolutely nothing to do with this.
The H. P. Lovecraft Historical Society: