But every night I see the rubbery things,
Black, horned, and slender, with membranous wings,
They come in legions on the north wind`s swell
With obscene clutch that titillates and stings,
Snatching me off on monstrous voyagings
To grey worlds hidden deep in nightmare`s well.
Over the jagged peaks of Thok they sweep,
Heedless of all the cries I try to make,
And down the nether pits to that foul lake
Where the puffed shoggoths splash in doubful sleep.
But ho!If only they would make some sound,
Or wear a face where faces should be found!
by H.P. Lovecraft - probabil unul dintre cei mai importanti si influenti scriitori ai genurilor horror, fantasy si science fiction din secolul XXI