@greatfitz <3′d for a book starter! Lovecraft had frequently wondered if the majority of mankind ever paused to reflect upon the occasionally titanic significance of dreams, and of the obscure world to which they belonged. From his experience so far with Fitzgerald and the Guild, it would seem not. Unless a dream aligned somehow with their own vision of the world beyond, or shocked them to the point of terror, humans didn’t seem to care much for the visions presented to them when unconscious. Countless psychiatrists had tried and failed to analyze them, each time falling further and further from the mark. How Hypnos would have laughed.
But all that was hypocritical with what Lovecraft was doing now. In the witching hours as Moby Dick drifted silently over the endless Pacific Ocean towards Yokohama, the cargo below on a ship following barely an hour behind, he was in a seating area with an open window, where the waxing gibbous moon offered its generous silver rays inside, wide awake. Not on the actual comfortable couches of course. He for some reason preferred sitting cross-legged on a stiff wooden chair, probably brought in there to accommodate for lack of space on the couches. He was using the moon’s glow to read a large weathered tome - the only thing that had been on his person when he was discovered. From a distance he could feel someone peering over his shoulders. He didn’t mention it for about ten minutes or so, then turned his head around....without his shoulders. crk-crk-crk! “Fitzgerald...did something wake you?” As far as he knew, he’d made as much noise as a shadow creeping around. Like always.
