It is always a shock to return to the old fishing town where one's dark furtive ancestors dwelt to keep festival as they had commanded, only to find som fule hav erected a giant, conical shoggoth amidst the temples of commerce.
This picture really doesn't do it justice. The way it clings, darkly, to the wet stone. The rippling as red pustular orbs surface and submerge in its foul, greenish form, and their glint and glisten in the damp sun of winter. I fled as best I was able, not pausing to look back. They little know... I hope.