mooglethulhu

I meditate with a cigarette in my hand. The wind gibbers with Their voices, and the earth mutters with Their consciousness. Burning leaves write transient three-dimensional glyphs in the air that melt and implode and evaporate in the unfelt currents of Their breath as they speak in words that predate hearing, as they spell out words with the flucations of gravity and the glares of sunspots.

I meditate with a cigarette at my lips. The sting of smoke in my nose and eyes brings the unwelcomed reminder of limited perceptions as I try to be as smoke, as water, as a medium for Their messages.

And they tell us one thing. They are coming. We become more like them with each flickering century, mastering first inert matter, then invisible energy, and now living flesh.

They are coming, but not to us. Through us. As us. The indifference of the cosmos towards man is mirrored in man's indifference towards man, and we howl their names in our orgasm-shudders and war-yells and birth-yowls and death-screams, and they are becoming our names