Piping


You listen to the maddening sound of the pipes, their idiot-drone vibrating through the grey matter that governs your actions, thoughts, and your being. Clouds form in the corners or... your vision? You think maybe you're seeing these things, but they feel more like sounds, like the piping paints them for you directly into your brain. Slowly two of the clouds begin to take solid shape, and stop, completely ambiguous, unfinished, amorphous. Two fat globs have begun to flop around, vague suggestions of pseudopods clumping out from central masses of ponderous flab. A larger cloud starts moving, luminous points glinting, spiralling into patterns, designs, hieroglyphic arcana and messages, they pump into you draw your eyes...

Putrescent spawn of the infernal gap, dark canyon of the mind, pulsing throb of humanity's abortion, ambivalent death of star-light, star-depth of primordial ooze, gel coating of antiquity's disease, the lurid starspawn king of idiocy and nightmarish regression, evolutionary aim and ultimate setback, dark fungoidal birth of Yuggoth, Khem, Arkham beyond the river...

You scream as this nightmare vision of the eternal chaos, idiot god rumbling and thrashing in convulsive dream, Azathoth, bursts into your brain with drums and a fluting rattle. You find most hideous, somehow, the hints of pipes tucked into the unfinished pseudopods of the globs on either side.