I found the log in a cedar box, black salt in the seam — under the wool of years, it breathed like a fever dream. The chart was stained with brine, with a coast no mast would brave, and the ink kept naming R'lyeh beneath a knuckled wave. I touched the page and felt that deep, that patient foreign drain — a pressure in my marrow, a rain that wasn't rain. They're waking up. They're waking up. The stars are almost right. The stars are almost right! Cthulhu fhtagn! Cthulhu fhtagn! The great old one — he's not a myth, he's a gun! Cthulhu fhtagn! Cthulhu fhtagn! R'lyeh rises from the sea — and now he's coming for me! In the Fishermen's Quarter they spoke of the black cone spire, of angles wrong as guilt, and a staircase cut in fire. I saw no gods in mercy, only glyphs that bent the eye — old basalt, drowned reliefs, and a threshold to the sky. The Esoteric Order kept their lamps low, their eyes like deep-sea glass, their mouths too still. They're waking up. They're waking up. The stars are almost right. The stars are almost right! Cthulhu fhtagn! Cthulhu fhtagn! The great old one — he's not a myth, he's a gun! Cthulhu fhtagn! Cthulhu fhtagn! R'lyeh rises from the sea — and now he's coming for me! In his house at R'lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming. Non-Euclidean geometry. Cyclopean masonry. The dreamlands fold like paper in a drowned fist — and every sigil turns the dark to breath. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn! Cthulhu fhtagn! Cthulhu fhtagn! Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh! Wgah'nagl fhtagn! Cthulhu fhtagn! He's not a myth, he's a gun! Ph'nglui mglw'nafh... Cthulhu R'lyeh... Wgah'nagl fhtagn...
