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"Lovecraft picking scabs from the mirror, tearing away flakes of sick skin and dried blood, to expose the glistening surface beneath. Raw and wet, the mirror reflects the face of a monster - hollow-cheeked, two-eyed, pale and bloodless. The mirror is dying.
'Cancer of the glass,' Lovecraft is told.
He reaches out to touch the thing he no longer recognises as his own reflection. Long, feminine fingers pass through the glassy membrane, causing ripples and little cries.
'God in heaven,' Lovecraft sighs. 'It's brine.'
The mirror fluxes, alive with uncanny tides and the odours of pure creation. Sweet rotten scent of biological mystery. He stares into the depths as something stirs far below. Storms and rain wrack the mirror's surface. The thing is coming up from the deep, getting bigger and bigger. It is vast and primitive and he knows its name."
From Lovecraft in Heaven by some guy called Grant Morrison. |
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