Through The Ghoul-guarded Gateways Of Slumber, Past

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 Murmuring Seas, Of Plains That Stretch Down To Sleeping Cities Of Bronze Andstone, And Of Shadowy Companies Of Heroes That Ride Caparisoned White Horsesalong The Edges Of Thick Forests, And Then We Know That We Have Looked Backthrough The Ivory Gates Into That World Of Wonder That Was Ours, Before We Were Wise And Unhappy.

The Only Saving Grace Of The Present Is That It's Too Damned Stupid To Question The Past Very Closely.

I Felt Myself On The Edge Of The World; Peering Over The Rim Into A Fathomless Chaos Of Eternal Night.

From Even The Greatest Of Horrors Irony Is Seldom Absent.

West Of Arkham The Hills Rise Wild, And There Are Valleys With Deep Woods That No Axe Has Ever Cut.