Ben A, do you remember that self-published Jeeves/Lovecraft mashup you once lent to me? I have yet to find a greater chasm between brilliance of idea and poverty of execution. Now every time I read one or the other, I unconsciously come up with a sentence that might serve as a kernel for a worthier rendering of the idea.
The great beast rose; I cannot in conscience say that its aspect of fathomless chaos was unprecedented in my experience — see Augustus Fink-Nottle’s Christmas party, ibid. and op. cit. — but, gentlemen, it would not be going an inch too far to say that, on this night, Yog-Sothoth was all of a doodah.
Or how about this for an ending:
In all likelihood he sits there still, in the asylum at Dunwich, now one among the empty human shells whose mystery he had first come there to unriddle. To the degree that he can be said to exist at all, it is not as a man, but as an incarnate warning: That a man must limit his curiosity, must learn contentment with his small patch of earth — or risk being lost forever in the howling vastness of his own bean.