It happened in a deep night forsaken by the moon and gnawed by a swarm of demonic purple stars. With a shudder, my soul felt the wandering breath of the abyss —it woke it up from the dream in my body's tomb.
Which's the destiny it's heading toward on the wings of the Night Gaunts?
They drown it, with strikes of shivers, in the universes buried under the archetype essence of H. P. Lovecraft.
Such universes are placed in the very core of splendors dropping from macabre visions, and marvels that oxidize the time's bones, just before dying in Azathoth's arms. My soul is bound to wander covered by the shroud of a heavy mist through the infinite spirals of this paradise, populated with fears, awesomeness and fascination.
Lovecraft, my soul is kneeled before your paradise's gates; command Yog-Sothoth to bridge the abyss that yawns between it and your imagination with the carcass of an ancient dimension. It's getting impatience! Its shrieking darkness is sighing!... Because in your Eden it wants to dwell.
From the shore of an ominous river that streams between the horizons of your mind, I behold the crown of all black dreams... it's Kadath —invisible to the exorcisms, sleeping peacefully on the most ancient visions. My soul wants to ascend till the highest tower of that fortress, forged with the handiwork of many parallel universes —it wants to do it with the ardent impulse of a lightning. But your Eden is the physical body of the magic and, unable to avoid it, it is drag at the foot of a cosmic shrine, beyond the plateau of Leng.
There, amid the pale sands of a desert frozen in an inner winter, The Old Ones, born in those stars that orbit around the gloomy manifestation of your memory, mask your paradise's face with the manuscripts from which will spring —like hellish sparks— the ghastly and frightful landscapes, heralds along with Nyarlathotep, of the nightmares of the chosen ones from the future aeons.
My soul nestle itself among the venomous Fungi from Yuggoth; they are the nourishment of Shub-Niggurath's Thousand Young. It doesn't want that any wind, comes out of the puerile waking state of the human beings, drive it away from the cyclopean ruins of these mythic darkness —no, it doesn't want it! For in your Eden, through all the aeons, it wants to dwell!
Your imagination is a spiral galaxy in the center of every supernatural tendency that carves iron visions in the longing of the dreamland's warriors —those that sink themselves in the darkest fantasies —who die under the noises issued by dead things —burn out by the cruel gaze of invisible realms —that put their necks under the sword of loathsome entities crawling beyond all space-time continuum.
In this weird garden, a scavenger dew devours the dreadful dreams that once fainted along with dizzy spectrums.
In this weird garden, the ambitions of the doomed and solitaries are the energy that feeds the wild deities reigning in the Necronomicon's deep forest.
Here, in this Eden of reanimated creatures, my soul is the virgin in the ceremonial. It'll give in offering the essence of all its physical incarnations —that's its blood. It wishes its shroud be the same seal that got bounded the Great Cthulhu within the City of R'lyeh. It doesn't want to be exhume from this grave out of time; for in your visions, Lovecraft, it wants to become stellar powder. In your Eden, through all the aeons, it wants to dwell!