hird tower by the river, and noticed
that the silhouette of the second tower was ragged at the top. Then we
split up into narrow columns, each of which seemed drawn in a different
direction. One disappeared in a narrow alley to the left, leaving only
the echo of a shocking moan. Another filed down a weed-choked subway
entrance, howling with a laughter that was mad. My own column was sucked
toward the open country, and presently felt a chill which was not of the
hot autumn: for as we stalked out on the dark moor, we beheld around us
the hellish moon-glitter of evil snows. Trackless, inexplicable snows,
swept asunder in one direction only, where lay a gulf all the blacker
for its glittering walls. The column seemed very thin indeed as it
plodded dreamily into the gulf. I lingered behind, for the black rift in
the green-litten snow was frightful, and I thought I had heard the
reverberations of a disquieting wail as my companions vanished; but my
power to linger was slight. As if beckoned by those who had gone before,
I half-floated between the titanic snowdrifts, quivering and afraid,
into the sightless vortex of the unimaginable.

Screamingly sentient, dumbly delirious, only the gods that were can
tell. A sickened, sensitive shadow writhing in hands that are not hands,
and whirled blindly past ghastly midnights of rotting creation, corpses
of dead worlds with sores that were cities, charnel winds that brush the
pallid stars and make them flicker low. Beyond the worlds vague ghosts
of monstrous things; half-seen columns of unsanctified temples that rest
on nameless rocks beneath space and reach up to dizzy vacua above the
spheres of light and darkness. And through this revolving graveyard of
the universe the muffled, maddening beating of drums, and thin,
monotonous whine of blasphemous flutes from inconceivable, unlighted
chambers beyond Time; the detestable pounding and piping whereunto dance
slowly, awkwardly and absurdly the gigantic, tenebrous ultimate
gods--the blind, voiceless, mindless gargoyles whose soul is
Nyarlathotep.

Editorial

Editorial comment upon amateur journalism generally falls within one of
two classes; complacent self-congratulation upon a mythical perfection,
or hectic urging toward impossible achievements. It is our purpose this
month to indulge in neither of these rhetorical recreations, but to make
one very prosaic and practical appeal which springs solely from
realistic observation.

This