The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. Last night there was an earthquake tremor, which keenly affected my imagination. I had a dream of strange cities, Cyclopean marvels of titan blocks and sky-flung monoliths, all dripping with green ooze and sinister with latent, cuddly horror. Hieroglyphics had covered the walls and pillars, and from some undetermined point below had come a voice that was not a voice, a sensation muffled by cotton batting, an unpronounceable jumble of letters, "Cthulhu fhtagn."

Today I know the reason why. A decrepit, ancient cardboard box arrived at my door, shipped from the ungodly miasmic swamps of Florida, and containing an utter horror.

I know now that I am doomed, and that it is only a matter of time until the deep ones arrive to carry me across unfathomable reaches of space to where the idiot god Azathoth slumbers. On the upside, my kids love it.