Shout out to: H.P. Lovecraft and Theodor Seuss Geisel (A.K.A. Dr Seuss)

Written by Jason A. S., it’s just as bad as it is written.

Started: Monday, September 14th, 2015 at 11:08AM

Ended: Monday, September 14th, 2015 at 8:01PM


                As I fell into a slumber, voices became apparent to I, never was I one for dreaming, but never was I one for believing either. Shifting though my intellectual nexuses void of reasonable logic that would only be bypassed by reality by way of their nonessential abstraction, these moments in time beyond our reality if were to be sound, they would only instruct us in to a deeper madness. I am keen to speak of such things even if I am nary shred sure what they in their unsound pleasant vulgarity. I am unsure of which if at any firm adherement that we could understand “The Call of Dr. Seussthulhu”, or to what its natural benefit to mankind could ever be.
                The dream was as dreams may be, strange little things, never what they are, nor what they appear to be, come one, come all, what a sight to see. Gah, I am disgusted by rhyme, and drives me deeper to madness most of the time, aye makes me want to run my head into that sign.
The dull thud thusly returned me to what I hope could be called my senses, funny how we are apt to hasten our resolve by violence, of course my thoughts drift from worst to verse, as I am besieged by more dense nonrepresentational offensives that I can only hope to describe.
                If Hell exists, it is obliged to be a dream, somewhat inescapable when your mind is suddenly drifting, unfocused to the task; my resolve keeps on slipping as if something were slithering into the vast recesses of my neural network, creeping nearer to a state of pretentious perspiration peaking at a means of by approximate infuriation and incredibly terrible inscriptions, what undue horror lurks in waiting as my mind tries to find an exit to this stage it has set.
                I dreadfully felt akin more to a puppet on a string than a master of my dreams, for the beauty that is apparent leaves me also aghast at its atrocity of it complexity; never should I comprehend what I see amongst what I do not. As the television continue its absurdity with “How The Yog-Shagoth stole Cthulhumas”, I knew to these abominable blasphemies I may never escape, even if I were to reach the land of the awakened, they would chase me for the rest of my existence, perhaps the only way out was to accept and admit defeat at the hands of my captors, sightless monstrosities they always are.
                To whom ever does find this account, I no longer know if I am of the waking or the dreaming as my fortune would have it, I’ve become desperately ill, not mad you see, for with my tomb of my hibernation, I awoke knowing I was saved from bearing witness to the tome known as “Green eggs and Nyarlathotep”, as I could not stand to journal much more about my experiences there.  I discourage anyone to try to seek these worlds out as I stumbled upon them, if not for their own souls, for the rest of ours.

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