To perceive oblivion is to invite your own doom. Ignore Yog-Soggoth’s dark, piercing clarion call. Turn your eyes away from his enticements. Do the same for the other Elder Ones. They whisper promises that shall only fill their bellies with your psychic-vomit, as your ears bleed and your ocular holes find themselves filled to the brim with gelatinous, former-eyes. Yeah, I know. It’s a letdown. The limitations of our meat-sacks. But hey! Until the great Transhumanism Movement of 20XX, we can spend our time bound in these rot-vessels together! Hanging out at the Weekend Open Bar.

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