There are not many persons who know what wonders are opened to them in the stories and visions of their youth; for when as children we listen and dream, we think but half-formed thoughts, and when as men we try to remember, we are dulled and prosaic with the poison of life. But some of us awake in the night with strange phantasms of enchanted hills and gardens, of fountains that sing in the sun, of golden cliffs overhanging murmuring seas, of plains that stretch down to sleeping cities of bronze and stone, and of shadowy companies of heroes that ride caparisoned white horses along the edges of thick forests; and then we know that we have looked back through the ivory gates into that world of wonder which was ours before we were wise and unhappy.
—H. P. Lovecraft
This is …
… your world.
… your America.
… your today, tomorrow, and yesterday.
This is a bad joke, as many have long suspected of life itself. This is a testament to the Sisyphan Absurd. This is the essence of the painful and confusing dimensions in which we live. This is what makes us human, and this is why it is tragic.
Come in, come in. All are welcome. Shield your eyes if you must. Clap your hands over your ears. Run in terror, if you think that will help. But don’t say you weren’t warned.