That is Not Dead...
"Nyarlathotep...the Crawling Chaos...I am the last....I will tell the audient void." --H.P.Lovecraft, Nyarlathotep.
His dour image remains to us as much of an enigma as the searing, maddening, alien intelligence that burned behind it. H.P. Lovecraft, the Great Panjandrum of Occult Horrors from beyond the stars, the strange seer of visions who fathered a brand of intercelestial, gothic surrealist nightmare that has come down to us today as an entire subgenre all its own--the "Cthulu Mythos," so called because of the many-tentacled horror rising from the brackish waters of an unforgiving, eternal ocean; who sleeps and dreams, buried in his underwater home of R'lyeh, vast sarcophagi of non-Euclidean angles and stinking, miasmic funk of forty thousand dead, and rotting creatures. Lovecraft, the writer, conceived of Great Cthulhu emerging once more, to plague the world again, to reclaim, for the Ancient Ones, the "Great Old Ones," tiny, insignificant MAN; whom one day, Idiot Chaos would "blow Earth's dust away."