It is said that in Providence, where no art student is safe from invoking the mysteries of neon geometry into his Great Work, so do all lovers of LARPing succumb to H.P. Lovecraft worship. Untenable from appropriation, sacred form has erupted. The balance between whimsy and ritual is no longer a dichotomy, but a hysterical glob of cloaks and craft. Light evacuates porch breakfasts and seeps into crevices where worms crawl for eternity.
So observeth comrades Peter Glantz and Twig Harper last weekend, as the faint echo of many tiny birds—or perhaps they were simply birdlike creatures, with sharp beaks and cannibalistic claws—chirping on the internet reached their ears. "It is Master Lovecraft's birthday!" they heard. Respects were to be paid, graveside, the stone for which is engraved: I AM PROVIDENCE.
As they strolled to the site, they heard a surprising uproar. Lo! What jovial darkness, with half-animate human-like talismans, skin fetid and tinged with a plasticene shimmer. And beloved icons of the deep and beyond, including a plush toy version of Cthulu. All celebrated with black balloons and a dramatic reading by a man in a Spiderman shirt beneath his cape.