Hmm, nice. As of off, by H.P. Lovecraft, when age fell upon the world, and wonder went out of the minds of men, when grey cities rid, to smoky skies tall towers grim and ugly, in whose shadow none might dream of the sun, or of spring's flowering needs. When learning stripped earth of her mantle of beauty, and poets sang no more save of twisted phantom seen with bleed and inward looking eyes, when these things had come to pass, and childish hopes had gone away forever, there was a man who traveled out of life on a quest into the spaces, wither the world's dreams had fled. Of the name and a boat of this man but little is written, for they were of the waking world only, yet it is said that both were obscure. It is enough to know that he dwelt in a city of high walls, where sterile twilight rain, and that he toil all day among shadow and turmoil, coming home at evening to a room whose one window opened, not on the fields and groves, but on a dim court, where other windows stared in dull despair, from that casement one might see only walls and windows, except sometimes when one leaned far out and pitted a loft at the small stars that passed, and because mere walls and windows must soon drive to madness a man who dreams and reads much, the dweller in that room used night after night, to lean out and peer a loft to glimpse some fragment of things beyond the waking world, and the grainers of tall cities. After years he began to call slow sailing stars by nay, and to follow them in fancy, when they glided regretfully out of sight, to let length his vision open to many secret vistas, whose existence no common eye suspects, and one night a mighty gulf was breached, and the dream-haunted sky swelled down to the lonely watchers window, to merge with the close air of his room, and make him a part of their fabulous wonder. There came to that room wild strings of fire that midnight glittering with dust of gold, and the seas of dust and fire, swirling out of the ultimate spaces and heavy with perfumes from beyond the worlds. Opiate oceans poured there, litin' by suns that the eye may never behold, and having in their whirlpool strange dolphins and sea-nymphs, of unremembrable deems, noiseless infinity eddyed around the dreamer and wafted him away, without even touching the body that leaned stiffly from the lonely window, and for days not counted in men's calendars, the tides are fast spheres, aired him gently to join the dreams for which he longed, the dreams that men have lost, and in the course of many cycles they tenderly left him sleeping, on a green sunrise shore, a green shore fragrant with lotus blossoms, and starred by red Cammelos.