what good be thy beauty when thou hath long rotten hollow

When the swamps give birth to spoiled dimensions, When the cold, damp earth, black black black, brings forth the most crawling obscenities, When flora and fauna become nothing but agents of corruption, of a frayed and disjointed reality grotesquely slashed open by the ravenous blade of the after-void, When the spider-thoughts crawl forth through the fissure of the ancient dead tree, making their way into your wretched throats, Ready to lay their filth within, to nurture their own anti-worlds inside you, When your bloodless carcasses go on to feed the soil of unreality, Becoming slime-dripping lichen, The faces of the Great Old Ones etched into the sky, grimacing, cackling. A sonata of annihilation. The end of all things is but the beginning of a terrible After. -Sir Kuliktavikt