Many intrepid investigators were killed, mangled or driven insane in the process of locating this priceless memoir by the High Priest of the Old Ones, Great Cthulhu. In retrospect, we probably just should have asked Neil Gaiman if we could go ahead and read his faithful translation from the original pictorial dream language of the ancients:

I was spawned uncounted aeons ago, in the dark mists of Khhaa’yngnaiih (no, of course I don’t know how to spell it. Write it as it sounds), of nameless nightmare parents, under a gibbous moon. It wasn’t the moon of this planet, of course, it was a real moon. On some nights it filled over half the sky and as it rose you could watch the crimson blood drip and trickle down its bloated face, staining it red, until at its height it bathed the swamps and towers in a gory dead red light.

Those were the days.

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