I Like Coffee Exceedingly.

There Be Those Who Say That Things And Places Have Souls, And There Be Those Who Say They Have Not; I Dare Not Say, Myself, But I Will Tell Of The Street.

At Night, When The Objective World Has Slunk Back Into Its Cavern And Left Dreamers To Their Own, There Come Inspirations And Capabilities Impossible At Any Less Magical And Quiet Hour. No One Knows Whether Or Not He Is A Writer Unless He Has Tried Writing At Night.

Thus I Began My Systematic Though Half-bewildered Tour Of Innsmouth's Narrow, Shadow-blighted Ways. Crossing The Bridge And Turning Toward The Roar Of The Lower Falls, I Passed Close To The Marsh Refinery, Which Seemed To Be Oddly Free From The Noise Of Industry. The Building Stood On The Steep River Bluff Near A Bridge And An Open Confluence Of Streets Which I Took To Be The Earliest Civic Center, Displaced After The Revolution By The Present Town Square.

I Have Never Been Able To Soothe Myself With The Sugary Delusions Of Religion; For These Things Stand Convicted Of The Utmost Absurdity In Light Of Modern Scientific Knowledge.

We Shall See That At Which Dogs Howl In The Dark, And That At Which Cats Prick Up Their Ears After Midnight.