Цвет из иных миров

           WhentwilightcameIhadvaguelywishedsomecloudswouldgather,foranoddtimidityaboutthedeepskyeyvoidsabovehadcreptintomysoul.

           Donotaskmeformyopinion.Idonotknow—thatisall.TherewasnoonebutAmmitoquestion;forArkhampeoplewillnottalkaboutthestrangedays,andallthreeprofessorswhosawtheaëroliteanditscolouredglobulearedead.Therewereotherglobules—dependuponthat.Onemusthavefeditselfandescaped,andprobablytherewasanotherwhichwastoolate.Nodoubtitisstilldownthewell—IknowtherewassomethingwrongwiththesunlightIsawabovethatmiasmalbrink.Therusticssaytheblightcreepsaninchayear,soperhapsthereisakindofgrowthornourishmentevennow.Butwhateverdaemonhatchlingisthere,itmustbetetheredtosomethingorelseitwouldquicklyspread.Isitfastenedtotherootsofthosetreesthatclawtheair?OneofthecurrentArkhamtalesisaboutfatoaksthatshineandmoveastheyoughtnottodoatnight.

           Whatitis,onlyGodknows.IntermsofmatterIsupposethethingAmmidescribedwouldbecalledagas,butthisgasobeyedlawsthatarenotofourcosmos.Thiswasnofruitofsuchworldsandsunsasshineonthetelescopesandphotographicplatesofourobservatories.Thiswasnobreathfromtheskieswhosemotionsanddimensionsourastronomersmeasureordeemtoovasttomeasure