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.
