otherPhoenix   Arizona   Where the dark is blacker than black and a color of its own, where nothing is something, and the dark is yet clearer than light, it was. It had always been there; It thought at those times when it was able to think at all, those short periods of consciousness between eternally seeming periods of what could only be sleep or nonexistence, and maybe It died each time and was reborn, if It could die at all, which It didn't know either. Then It tried to think of Itself, and It knew It had a name, which was Cyaegha, which told It nothing about Itself except that It did exist. It just was, It couldn't be touched in Its somewhere place which was nowhere, but neither could It touch other things. It could be called evil, if evil would have had a rational meaning to Itys existence, which it hadn't. Rather Cyaegha was something beyond the man-made laws of good and evil, a natural force, or a natural happening like a wood-fire or a tornado, or a storm, or just plain death, something to which no artificial laws apply. Sometimes during those scarce moments when It was allowed to think, or maybe allowed Itself to think, because It didn't know if the sleep-death periods were or weren't created by Itself, It tried to remember more than Its name. Then there came sights of millenia of blue ice and then of fire-spitting volcanoes, warts on the face of Earth, and it all seemed so utterly stupid and unimportant to Cyaegha that it revolted It, so It went back to death and slumber. Time had no real meaning either, it was just something which went by unnoticed, utterly unimportant to something such as Cyaegha, trapped in Its maybe self- made prison and only by Its mind in contact with the outer reality. And at those times when It was awake, fully awake, It hated, as only something can hate which is beyond good and evil. Its whole consciousness became that hate, because that was the only thing It could do. It saw with eyes that were no eyes, and It heard with ears that were not ears, and It thought with Its whole being because It didn't possess such primitive organs as brains either. Silently It hated. Through the aeons some of Its alien dreams touched men and drove them gibbering mad. Some were more strongly protected and just felt the outer touches of Its dreams, and tried to interpret then consciously in essays, or used them unconsciously in weird stories. Some authors wrote them down as stories, knowing that the world would never accept such an utterly alien reality. Of course they too were considered as insane, as those who really had been driven mad by Its dreams. None had the knowledge and the possibilities to search for other clues. Because Its name had already been written down long ago, or other names which they thought was Its, carved on limestone tablets; and Its shape had been painted on the walls of subterreanian caves, still waiting to be opened. But Its shape was not real and constantly changed.A few more than alot.   A little less than alot.   Alot more than a few.   scorpiosleep dreams escape horror exist“The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown” ― H.P. Lovecraft