In Nighttime Stories, the narrator H.P. Nightly reads to you stories selected each week to please, stimulate, or (hopefully) make you think. And if not that, at the very least, we aim to amuse you. Listen on to fill and haunt and dim life, turn your mind like the knob to a closet door you can’t remember, arrest the senses by one means (the spoken word) and fill the void that inevitably comes to us each night.
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In Nighttime Stories, the narrator H.P. Nightly reads to you stories selected each week to please, stimulate, or (hopefully) make you think. And if not that, at the very least, we aim to amuse you. Listen on to fill and haunt and dim life, turn your mind like the knob to a closet door you can’t remember, arrest the senses by one means (the spoken word) and fill the void that inevitably comes to us each night.
A prose poem selected for this week, 'Nyarlathotep', by H.P. Lovecraft, first published in 1920.
This week, we bring you a shorter episode than we had originally intended, having just recovered in the studio from a brief catastrophe. Yesterday, the information pipelines in our region were severed by the trident of a great scaled king.
Having emerged initially from gods-know-where at the beginning of the Industrial Revolution or in mercantile areas of previous centuries, its literal size and figurative scale has grown such that it accidentally damages the tools of its own power while trying to carefully carve out new niches to slither through. We are not innocent of serving it, and in fact most do so happily here! So much so, that you do not go this week without an episode of our show, our scaly lord having inched away and his many servants having healed the brief communications rift between me and you.
Nighttime Stories
In Nighttime Stories, the narrator H.P. Nightly reads to you stories selected each week to please, stimulate, or (hopefully) make you think. And if not that, at the very least, we aim to amuse you. Listen on to fill and haunt and dim life, turn your mind like the knob to a closet door you can’t remember, arrest the senses by one means (the spoken word) and fill the void that inevitably comes to us each night.
