Already regretting assigning coverage of the Fyre musical festival to H. P. Lovecraft:
Eerie, eldritch sounds echoed from the basalt stone, bringing no rest to the huddled sleepers. Around them, bas reliefs of ancient and graffitied aspect leered from unwholesome angles, perspectives arcane with limpid materialism, greed and flaccid desires. A hungry waif orbited the lugubrious shingle searching for a working power outlet, soulless desire made flesh ‘need to tweet’ she whispered in a sibilant tongue long lost to mortal man.
