Incalculably old and cold.
This is where it lies.
Aeons it has slumbered, dreaming creation. Its ancient mind’s psychic anemone wisps playing.
It started dreaming simple shapes, blobs within bubbles. Swimming things, things with legs, and things with hair.
The tendrils could not touch those, to the dreamer’s dismay. So it dreamt close again, deep, and dark: things with tentacles and teeth. It even dreamt of things with light, if a lesser kind, mocking, worse than the dark.
Now the things with hair have come to test the darkness and wake the antediluvian dreamer from its rest.