Foolish Weblogger Child

Someone, and no matter where, collects the pieces of my shadow.

Game over.

It is true that there is nothing like a blaze in the hearth to soothe the nerves and restore order to a house.

[Our lives are spinning out
from world to world;
the shapes of things
are shifting in the wind.]
What do we know
beyond the rapture and the dread?

At the end
of August, I’d be happy to know
we’re finally going to get
some rain, happy with even
a small glass of local pinot
in the shade with which to salute
the incredible furnaces of the stars
that burn almost forever before
collapsing, exploding, and
gathering together again—atoms
whirling with their undisclosed
purpose toward the dark.

[But not ever
After.] And not now.

[Stupendous and unheard-of splendours await me below, and I shall seek them soon. Iä-R’lyeh! Cthulhu fhtagn! Iä! Iä! No, I shall not shoot myself—I cannot be made to shoot myself!

I shall plan my cousin’s escape from that Canton madhouse, and together we shall go to marvel-shadowed Innsmouth.] We shall swim out to that brooding reef in the sea and dive down through black abysses to Cyclopean and many-columned Y’ha-nthlei, and in that lair of the Deep Ones we shall dwell amidst wonder and glory for ever.

No metaphysic has prepared us
for the simple act of turning
and walking away.

[‘These writings may shock or horrify you, but that is not my intention. It is my greatest hope that the pages in this jar stir your deepest well of human compassion. I hope they prompt you to do something, to tell someone.] Only then can we ensure that this kind of evil is never allowed to repeat itself.’

Sincerely,
Mrs. Lina Arvydas
9th day of July, 1954-Kaunas

[He heard people singing. Behind him, across vast distances of space and time, from the place he had left, he thought he heard music too.] But perhaps it was only an echo.