They pierce the back of your throat and you first taste blood but soon after the tar boils and thickens and fills your stomach with the purest of evil.You must drain the beast of his hatred for you thus sparing what is left of your god forsaken soul which has now turned black with the sins of the modern world.
(
atomic A-bomb-a-nation,
Sun 16 Oct 2011, 0:39,
archived)
And now here's Laura with the weather.
Lord Kronos Go Team Pachyderm,
Sun 16 Oct 2011, 1:02,
archived)
Thanks, Brad. I felt a chill which was not of the hot autumn; for as we stalked out on the dark moor, we beheld around us the hellish moon-glitter of evil snows. Trackless, inexplicable snows, swept asunder in one direction only, where lay a gulf all the blacker for its glittering walls. The column seemed very thin indeed as it plodded dreamily into the gulf. I lingered behind, for the black rift in the green-litten snow was frightful, and I thought I had heard the reverberations of a disquieting wail as my companions vanished; but my power to linger was slight. As if beckoned by those who had gone before, I half-floated between the titanic snowdrifts, quivering and afraid, into the sightless vortex of the unimaginable.
Screamingly sentient, dumbly delirious, only the gods that were can tell. A sickened, sensitive shadow writhing in hands that are not hands, and whirled blindly past ghastly midnights of rotting creation, corpses of dead worlds with sores that were cities, charnel winds that brush the pallid stars and make them flicker low. Beyond the worlds vague ghosts of monstrous things; half-seen columns of unsanctified temples that rest on nameless rocks beneath space and reach up to dizzy vacua above the spheres of light and darkness. And through this revolting graveyard of the universe the muffled, maddening beating of drums, and thin, monotonous whine of blasphemous flutes from inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond Time; the detestable pounding and piping whereunto dance slowly, awkwardly, and absurdly the gigantic, tenebrous ultimate gods — the blind, voiceless, mindless gargoyles whose soul is Nyarlathotep.
(by HP Lovecraft of course, not me)
(Screamingly sentient, dumbly delirious, only the gods that were can tell. A sickened, sensitive shadow writhing in hands that are not hands, and whirled blindly past ghastly midnights of rotting creation, corpses of dead worlds with sores that were cities, charnel winds that brush the pallid stars and make them flicker low. Beyond the worlds vague ghosts of monstrous things; half-seen columns of unsanctified temples that rest on nameless rocks beneath space and reach up to dizzy vacua above the spheres of light and darkness. And through this revolting graveyard of the universe the muffled, maddening beating of drums, and thin, monotonous whine of blasphemous flutes from inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond Time; the detestable pounding and piping whereunto dance slowly, awkwardly, and absurdly the gigantic, tenebrous ultimate gods — the blind, voiceless, mindless gargoyles whose soul is Nyarlathotep.
(by HP Lovecraft of course, not me)
Sea Tramp the thinking woman's 8 Ace,
Sun 16 Oct 2011, 1:11,
archived)
That's all very well, but what about the pollen count? Lord Kronos Go Team Pachyderm,
Sun 16 Oct 2011, 1:29,
archived)
Medium to low. Hay fever sufferers should avoid the Occult section of New England university libraries. Sea Tramp the thinking woman's 8 Ace,
Sun 16 Oct 2011, 1:40,
archived)
Thanks, now here's Tom with the denture report.
Lord Kronos Go Team Pachyderm,
Sun 16 Oct 2011, 1:49,
archived)
Looks precarious, Tom. How are the markets reacting, Lori? Sea Tramp the thinking woman's 8 Ace,
Sun 16 Oct 2011, 2:09,
archived)