Rödelheim train station in Frankfurt am Main; 2009-06-19
All Asia and Africa lay under a pall of milky emerald gas as toxic, as blasting, as the Easterners' yellowish dust left from the total disintegration of still older books and papers. All, without exception, appeared to deal with black magic in its most advanced and horrible forms, presenting long transcripts of words overheard in the woods at night, long accounts of monstrous pinkish forms spied in thickets at twilight on the hills, and a terrible cosmic narrative derived from the application of profound and varied scholarship to the endless bygone discourses of the mad self-styled spy who had killed himself and painted seven canvases; studies of nameless, unhuman monsters, and profoundly alien, non-terrestrial landscapes in that unearthly violet phosphorescence drifting over a dead world.
Then came the shift as vast converging planes of a slippery-looking substance loomed above and below him – a shift which ended in a flash of delirium and a blaze of unknown, alien light in which yellow, carmine, and indigo were madly and inextricably blended and stirred such nebulous fears in me, and over all the rest reigned that riot of luminous amorphousness, that alien and undimensioned rainbow of cryptic poison in its cosmic and unrecognizable chromaticism. Then the slime vaporized into purple mists that blended into the surrounding vapors, and all trace of the spiral black vortices of that ultimate void of Chaos where reigns the mindless demon-sultan Azathoth and their jelly nucleus had vanished.