Anton Cancre

There isn't much to say for or against the man who lies locked inside... I exist, therefor Nietzsche has to acknowledge me. Sometimes the glass is half empty, sometimes half full, usually knocked over in pile of its own excretia. Is it just me or does my belly button look fat? Ooh! A cookie crumb...

Glory be to
Charlee Jacob, Mistress of Hope among the tattered carcasses littering this age of Kali
Gerard Houarner, Patron Saint of the heroes of broken reality and the father of a Dead Cat
Jack Ketchum, optimistic decrier of the fantasies of our glory and innocence
Ed Lee, diddler of collostomer bags in the sprawling metropolis of Hell
Gary Braunbeck, progenitor of broken hearts and soaring dreams
Tom Piccirilli, the sweet voice of discordance, chewing the fabric of genres
Richard Matheson, the father of us all
H.P. Lovecraft, colonizer of limitless gulfs (racist bastardy aside)
Machen, dreaming blasted insanity among the wastelands
all those screaming their songs into the void, doing their damnedest to birth a safe haven