I understand you, Lovecraft...

There is a taint in my flesh, an imperfection that threatens me at an unseen level. I am not pure. I am corrupted as is the world around me. Do you not see the decay? Long gone are golden facades, cracked and crumbling with only shadow to fill the gaps. I see the brick bones of buildings, the sprayed graffitti as if blood splattered across the walls.

The sun is retreating behind gray clouds. The world howls like a primordial beast, quaking in anger beneath us. Or is that her final death throes? She vomits mighty ocean uncontrollably across her breast churning up abominations. Her crown of ice melts and recedes to reveal barren rocky lands long buried. How black the sky has become. How silent the heart of Terra.

Old beasts re-emerge; monsters clothed in man's flesh. They prey upon humanity, feeding on fear, quenching their dark thirst upon the blood of innocence. But is there innocence left in the world? The shadows are looming, light finding itself submerged beneath the ever rising tide of night. The monsters are out there, cloaked in twilight, eyes glittering like dying ashes, gibbering wildly beneath their breath at their approaching victim.

Where is my sanity now? The framework of the rational was built poorly around my soul. It took little strain to compromise my psyche. It long collapsed with a shriek as steel will twisted and fell. Now there is no support, only wreckage. I pick through the rubble of my mind and find little to salvage. So many memories lost.

The cries. The cries of the lost. The screams of the night. Stars streak across the horizon. Even angels do fall. How purple the expanse is, like a bruise. Mortal wounds bleed Heaven dry, the color of Paradise darkening. We turn away from Heaven's final hours. We are culpable in Her demise. Did we not wound Her? We no longer have need of gods or dreams. We starved Her until she was too weak to defend Herself. Then did we sacrifice Her to logic and science. How long before we burn Her ashes upon the pyre lit by nuclear fire?

Oh, the old gods hunger for us. Born of darkness, those amoeba of fluid form. They wish to feed upon our forms. Their simplicity harbors rage at our complexity. They are single-minded and driven by powerful instinct while we stutter between thoughts, rigid and paralyzed by indecision. We cannot halt their rise from the cracks brought by decay. They will seep out with the shadows and render us nothing more than wraiths to dwell in the abyss. They hunger to dismember civilization, the greatest abomination. The artificial is but twisted nature, reality corrupted by man's fear, man's greed, man's ignorance at wanting to achieve godhood. We are born of dirt and yet wish we were more.

Dreams, oh why did we abandon you? You are far more real than waking day. What you show us, those spiritual insights. Without you we are hollow, shells. When we sacrificed you, all we did was surrender to the darkness. We allowed the void into our hearts. That was the true beginning of the rot. Now it spreads from us to the world. All is threatened because we turned away from dreams. We no longer yearn to fly so we shall crawl upon our bellies and eat dust.

Lovecraft, how I know you. This world is no longer ours. We were born the end of our lines. None may come after for the rot has finally rendered us sterile. The peak was long reached and all we may do is decline back to the beginning, our origins holding the seeds of our end.

So here I wait, upon my knees, the light flickering beneath the onslaught of final night. Darkness will drown me as the cold bites deep into my flesh. I shall pale like the moon and shine one last time like the flame atop the candle before I too must waver and, with man's last breath, be lost to the void.