“They tease me,” he said, sitting down at the end of the dock. “They accuse me of slipping – in my mind and in my writing.” He trailed two fingers along the surface of the water. Moments later, glowing eyes appeared, looking up at him through the blue. “Today, my publisher asked me what he could expect; would I continue to submit my usual blend of science and the impossible, or would I like to write a romance column for the ladies’ gazette.” More eyes appeared,opening and closing, against a large, dark shape shifting in the lake. “I used the word “mermaid”; that’s the crux of the problem,” he said with a sigh. “I cheapened everything with the vernacular, thinking no one would really understand.” A multitude of grey-green tentacles reached up above the waves and caressed his hand. “And I was right, of course,” he said quietly, not pulling away. “They wouldn’t understand the very fine line between horror and sincere affection.” Lovecraft continued to sit on the dock for the next hour, comforting Dagon that he would find the words to bring the work around and make proper introductions in time.