The Moon of Aeons

“dreaming among shadows still,
thy fear makes for the screaming,
where the howl of the whipoorwills
that draw from the end of darkness,
in time when horror in the beginning,” — original poem

The details that seem so vague but from the dream as what I describe of them. That in those dreams that become the narrated details as I pen of them here. Becoming from them as I pen this, of knowing in the dwindling daylight sleep. As knowing of the places which I describe from the dream — that would be of the vast memory that one would not wish to begin to understand. In the thought as what becomes after the knowing of what the moon brought on from the hours while the fog ring gathering around it. In the becoming from the dream as I wrote them in here, what I saw within the dreams were that of a being with the head resembling a squid. In the details that appear from the dream as they are vast and vague — one would know that it was there, that I knew the mist around the waters of Winnona, Minnesota. That from those would bring about the dream that I would write all those years later.

That in the sense of the mind, not even one with a unstable psyche would be able to describe the rational thoughts as they were there. Where they would see in the dream that I had was of being in the areas of this would become from the winters rain. As from the winter rain one had seen the face of this creature looking on — its likeness in form of a statue being placed on the front of the town, where one cannot tell the horror that was there within the mind and the hours fading from them in the dream as they were. From a darker insight that I sat down in front of the word processor, nervous beyond any belief possible I make the concious effort to write all that was there within the dream-infested sleep. In knowing that it was there from the pages becoming, It was from them which come the narrative as one sees the being of the 1000 years dreaming. In time as it echoes everyting — the dreams that draw from the color out of space, the horrors which tell from them are that no human can begin to describe. The knowing from them which echo the details of the vague yet it is in the eyes that see the dream as it is there — that Cthulhu watches on.

From the places that haunt the depths of the mind that the tenticle grin watches on. It is from there which bring the dreams that I describe from one time or another, being as from them which be the details resting among the pages as they were written. That from the darkness staring back looking at the pages which I write here, that where the aeons of time looking on — where the moon from above looks down, where the skies of a Cthulhu dawn bring the horrors that become and unknown fears that tell from them. From the telling of the dream as it is written — from a darkness in gospel of pages bringing upon the episles of the thoughts becoming from them, not of God or Christ can describe the dreams as they are written here. As one in the dream hears the documented whispers of blasphemy, while in the mind it is there from the telling of the beginning — the genesis of darkness while the Great Cthulhu lies dead and dreaming.

As where I would overl0ok the night that it reflects off the Des Plaines River, the dreams that are there would be the haunting details drawn to the pages. In the knowing or no telling of the thoughts as they were in the dreams. That it was from the months later that the dream came about again — that being in the hotel room as before when I fell ill in November. Becoming as from the places telling as they were written in the pages which stare back at me — in the place as time had taken its course from the period when the evil airs took to the physical body. In the echo o f the dreams that were there in 1998, being in the shadow of the mind which the being with the tenticle grin stares back. From the places in time when I was dragged to a church revival, that is when I knew the dreams were in there and knew that they needed to be written.

I have no telling of what details lurk inside within the fears among the nightmares as I write them here into the pages of a journal that I kept for the past few years. In the two years that would remain of the dreams that are there — in the times hospitalized and the trips to New Orleans as well as Baltimore, one thing was there among the dreams as I looked past the waters. In the darkness that was from the Southern nights — the horror within the dreams as it was there looking on, the being which slept for 1000 years watched and waiting. The knowing it is there — vast in the being of the thoughts within the dream-infested sleep. Of the narration that draws from this being the dream as it was — that watching me were the Great Old Ones; horror being from which it cannot even be rationally described that drawn from the nightmare inside. Knowing it was from the dream as it tells inside knowing that it was there was the horrors of the unknown, as being from the dream it was the words that I heard spoken.

that which is not dead, may eternal lie
with stranger aeons, even death my die,,,,

That it was from the dream telling of the mind which I pen from this from the words inside the dream as they draw from description. From the obscure that drawn of them, the hours from the places seen among shadows as they bring upon them. Among the whisper spoken in blasphemy, that in the eyes of the ones preaching could not begin to see what was looking back at them. Where it would be there within the thoughts as they become from the echoed details that become from them — as the pages they hold from the Holy Bible, praying that what comes does not awaken. That tell in the dream as they draw from the sleep that I had in the Joliet hotel, beneath the questions as they draw from the time in the south and in Baltimore — where a dream as this was waiting years to awaken itself. Where as from myself, that I awaken from the dream and hound around for a notebook to remember the details.

The name is Nickolaus Albert, the details that I write from this on a page which come in the time as I was staying in the hotel within the confines of Joliet, Illinois. The reading patterns that came from the dreams which became of the details echo that of a time long before I was even conceived. In the places where time has no dominion — the times when dreams are in the sleep-infested thoughts while I would put them into a written record. A dark gospel of sorts — that episle that one of the congregation dreads finding. That where it is in the dream, as where the Great Cthulhu gets into the mind of the one who is writing. Time where it is ticking away, I put to the record as what sees inside the pages that are inked from here. Where it would draw from the dreams as I wrote of the time that was lost — knowing that it was there which everything around me had been watching and waiting. Among the pages in time where one sees the tenticle grin watching on as the horror is written within the clay. Where the dream takes me is in the depths of the pages of H.P. Lovecraft’s written journal; from horrors that draw from the no where from telling — in the silence that brings the eerie calm.

From the eerie calm that brings from the dreams as the evil airs being the echo of all that comes — in the colour out of space. In what was remaining there as the echo of all that is written, the record of what I remember of the dreams that are there — from the dreams that are there which are watching from above the skies. From the year of 1998, as the dream would draw from the winters of that year — the dream as it was there in Iowa, that draws from the echo of darkness. Where the dreams are written describing the time of the Great Old Ones — which look on as one sees Nyarlathotep, the last, as they would see the crawling chaos following into the night with what the moon brings. That the madness waiting inside ones sleep; telling of what is there would be of the echoes inside — the waking hours that draw from the dreaming as it would be in the depth of sleep. That which is there waiting from the mind as I would put this to paper — the thoughts waiting as an echo of the past which is in the journal.

In the hours of telling as from where they are written, the penned thoughts as they were from the dreams as they echoe all that was there in the mind. As from myself which they remain, from this as where the dream-infested slumber festers from one point into the next. Where it would draw from an ebony sky that becomes the backdrop for the dream as it is written — as the moon had a blackish-blue mist around it. From this which the dreams echo, the memory of what the moon brings. In the echo of details that draw from the dream as it becomes clear — that from the horrors that I see in them that I wake screaming. Where I heard them in the dream — the echoing screams of the whipoorwill while they dwell inside the patterns of the horror within. The telling of the thoughts inside that what I was seeing was only the nightmare getting the best of the imagination. From the echoing fears telling from the cosmos of being, that the sickness from the dreams echo the colour out of space. The thoughts as they are drawn from the concious thoughts, that awakened from the nightmare — screaming as one would see the clock glowing 2 A.M.

Not glowing, but flashing 2 A.M. In thoughts which become from them in the knowing as time ticks from dreams that tell from nothing that can be brought from the details. In the darkness that draws from the sleep and the dream-infested being, it is where in the mind from there where the emerald statue rests within the rest of the dream cycle. As from the places in the mind being from the hotel where I wrote parts of the dream out on — and the transcribed pages become the narrative as they are seen from here. From them become the echoing thoughts as they mirrored the pages of H.P. Lovecraft’s journal, the dreams which resided from the sleep-infested body as the dream-infested patterns drawn from them. Becoming in the echo which are heard within the screams of the whipoorwill, that drawn from the dreams that I awoken from — when the darkness is still holding its dominion while the others in the hotel building continued to sleep.

In the time that I fell asleep was the question that comes to mind as I began to write this. Telling of the thoughts as they draw from the lack of regrets — that dreams are echoing the torments of the mind as they reflect that of an earthquake. The dreams that bring from the nightmares as they brought out from the echoes bringing the horror in the sky as the abominations were written in the clay. In the dreams as they were seen — the Great Old Ones were watching on. In the patterns that draw from the sleep, one as myself in the vague details record them as they remained there. In the telling as they would become — as they would be seen in a page as they were written. In time telling from where, in horrors past and future — where in the dreams of what remains there, sleeps another 1000 years. In the places that would remain — no one would begin to describe the dreams that lie within the walls of sleep.