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Wretched is he who looks back upon lone hours in vast and dismal chambers with brown hangings and maddening rows of antique books, or upon awed watches in twilight groves of grotesque, gigantic, and vine-encumbered trees that silently wave twisted branches far aloft. Such a lot the gods gave to me—to me, the dazed, the disappointed; the barren, the broken.

H. P. Lovecraft, The Outsider

Frozen Flames

Dark is this night; a thundercloud, black lightning
By this frantic fire, frozen flames are blackly shining
Closed, inside itself, a nothingness that's rotting
Blinded, a maybe, nothing seeking nothing

Self-sufficient, vast abyss
Deep spectrefill'd unbliss

A drainage of air—may I safely assume
That when it all has been drained, that vacuum can't breathe vacuum?
In orbits of spasm is darkness breeding darkness
An orbiting dance in ever shrinking gall'ries

Self-sufficient, vast abyss
Deep spectrefill'd unbliss

A yawning chasm of the sorrow that is one
Of grief, desertion, and the battles all unwon.
Elimination of what causes grief to be—
Thus in the end there will be nothing there but me.

Dark is my night; opaque its every hour.
Choking the daybreak a mist that may devour.
A secret well known, a light that isn't shining.
The rain-hidden diamonds: short distance—road is winding.

Self-sufficient, vast abyss
Deep spectrefill'd unbliss

Heroine >


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