Searchers After Horror Haunt Strange, Far Places.

Men Of Broader Intellect Know That There Is No Sharp Distinction Betwixt The Real And The Unreal

The End Is Near. I Hear A Noise At The Door, As Of Some Immense Slippery Body Lumbering Against It. It Shall Not Find Me. God, That Hand! The Window! The Window!

When Randolph Carter Was Thirty He Lost The Key Of The Gate Of Dreams.

The Glorious Dryden, Refiner And Purifier Of English Verse, Did Less For Rhyme Than He Did For Metre.

Maybe, Just Maybe, I Should Not Have Used The Word "eldritch" So Many Times Now That I Think About It.