H.P. Lovecraft

They always out there sending out spiders and monkeys and a certain kind of iterating crab to read for signs of internet wildness, which shows itself through the unconscious overuse of certain key expressions. Next thing you know a grey wave envelops your blog and blogs like it, like a room slowly filling with sickness, and you know they triangulated your signal and came running through the mist. Someone somewhere is being held down in a bath, giving them names, dictating codes. You don't know it until it's too late, and then you find html where your pictures once interspersed text, like bones, like framework ripping through tissue, through wet frocks and the music is all corrupt files that eat at each other in analogues of hateful children in ditches on the way home suddenly waking to find their mouths untongued. In these circumstances it is always best to stay out of the rain and not try to be too clever. My prescription is always the same: a long fearful day in bed with biscuits and a book by H.P. Lovecraft.