Whispers Of Nyarlathotep Options

All things are written in the stars if you are wise and see with the eye of universal vision. The magic of correspondences makes free use of the heavenly spheres, the zodiacal divisions, the connections, interconnections, and emissions of sympathetic energy from all stellar bodies. This is using the momentum of the universe itself to accomplish a task through a small act performed at just the right moment.
We are, we exist, and therein lies the crux of the matter in the mind for we are the very thing we seek to know. The tongue cannot taste itself. The nose does not know its own odor. We look and find our own face in the mirror and the mind rebels, seeking shelter from its shattered preconceptions and the blank horror that is us alone and beautiful.
I am the traveler. I pass the gates of death and stand before my own execution. I watch the heavenly darkness give birth to lights bewildering in infinite variety. I am the faceless messenger and the chaos that crawls as I creep across the forgotten deserts of alien dimensions. I heed the whispers in the dark and take strength from my madness. I am wounded again by my precious insanity and sing a lament of creation. The fall of perfection was the birth of the universe and long forgotten triumph and tragedy. I do not have a name but I am a hundred billion stars asking why. I am the one who wills to exist for each slow century of my burning. I am not forgotten but no one knows my shattered face, reflected by the scattered race, held aloft with battered grace. I hold in hand the Akashic records that destroy the craven lies of all false realities.
My home is in between the places. My life is not. My death is not a stranger. My breath is cold and full of danger. Gods old before the flood of myths, my name is ever on their lips, voids I wandered all alone before they ever sat a throne. I sing in darkness still as stone. I am known but still unknown. Works of the devil I have never met, but in the war of the beginning that men now forget. A mistake to not beget what is that would have been the greater sin. To not let fall the subtle matter that became the race of men.
I fulfill the prophecy of the darkness and bring to fruition the will of the universe. The gods of light tremble before me, the gods of darkness shiver when I pass. I am the servant the master fears; I am the master less servant. I am the Ancient one unborn. I am the Watcher in the waste. My whims are capricious; I raise gods up to cast them down. I collect gods and devils as trinkets to dance upon a dusty shelf. I collect men and women to watch them squirm in my cold iron grip. With nimble fingers I turn the wheel of stars and pluck the very strings of being. I grow weary of this waking but to sleep would end the dream that is. I support this vaulted fantasy that surely is not mine. I watch all beings laugh and weep forgetting they’re divine. I hold out ascensions precious jewel to all the lower worlds. Few are those brave enough to venture forth from flesh, few are there with sight so keen to pierce the veils of matter that I have laid out in my insubordination against the will to do nothing.
I am being this mystery. My soul an uncarved block so all things are given form. I have drowned myself in darkness and scorched myself in light, to grow this seed I planted in my breast, this universe of existences that blossom at my touch. What I am is impossible to be but that is what I am being throughout existence in every moment of space, in every dimension of time, in every form of consciousness.

And in one blinding spark the crystallization of mind closed the avenues I walked trapping me both inside and outside that which was once me.
YogSothoth is the key and is forever not and my anguish is at once complete and eternal. I await in frozen Kadath, a King in Yellow, where Beasts due homage and the gods cavort their smallness in fleeting forms the dreamlands of men.