Summer is not kind to the brain

Work, not heat, is what has fried me this year. It's a lovely summer day, but I want only to buy books-- or rather, collect books. So I get things from the library instead and think vaguely about reading them, and then play online solitaire instead. And one can't even fic about solitaire as you can about videogames.
( A list of failed reading )

Or, in a word, bumpf

So rushthatspeaks discovers HP Lovecraft being, in essence, HP Lovecraft even while talking about some rather uninspired caverns in Virginia.

Glimpses of far black vistas beyond the radius of the lights-- sheer drops of incalculable depth to unknown chasms, or arcades beckoning laterally to mysteries yet untasted by human eye-- bring one's soul close to the frightful and obscure frontiers of the material world, and conjure up suspicions of vague and unhallowed dimensions whose formless beings lurk ever close to the visible world of man's five senses.

Am I the only person who thinks Lovecraft writes like a fog machine? Formless, inchoate, and dimly menacing, like the gibbering of Those who dwell Down There.