Cthulhu is punishing me for forgetting the Master's birthday. Yesterday was HP Lovecraft's birthday. Instead of sacrificing something (my pride?) at the alter of Cthulhu, I went to see the old Joan Crawford flick "The Women" at the Stanford Theatre. Joan Crawford IS a scary bitch so at least I did something horror related. Happy Birthday Buddy. Thanks for all the nightmares.
But some of us awake in the night with strange phantasms
of enchanted hills
and gardens, of fountains
that sing in the sun, of golden cliffs overhanging
of plains that stretch down to sleeping cities of bronze and
and of shadowy companies of heroes that ride caparisoned white horses
along the edges of thick forests;
and then we know that we have looked back
through the ivory gates into that world of wonder
which was ours before we were
wise and unhappy.