Under the obscure and twain-tinged shadows of the New Moon, you, Virgo, shall be plagued with an uncanny sense of unease, a macabre interlacing of dream and reality, frighteningly akin to the supernatural atmosphere pervading the cursed pages of a forgotten grimoire. The constellations shriek of unsettling revelations looming beyond the veil of the known, each star an eye in the unfathomable darkness, peering into the mortal coil with an insidious hunger, a grotesque fascination. Horror does not lie in the beast under the bed, but rather, dreadfully, within the chambers of your solitude where unspeakable mysteries thrive unmolested by the gentle lantern of reason.

A malignant specter of the astral plane resounds a cacophonous serenade unto you, screeching against the glass of sanity. In broad daylight, you shall glimpse reflections of ghastly figures whispering curses in a tongue alien and antiquated in shimmering mirages. Not physical, but only perceptible in the nightmare’s cold sweat and cryptical illogic. As the nightly symphony of eerie silence engulfs you, a melancholy that drips like ichor from ebon roses, seek not escape but confrontation. Fear not, O Virgo, the walking nightmare but embrace it, become one with it, for only the slayer is he who recognizes his demons. Do not lose sight of this, lest you surrender to the lovecraftian abyss beyond the macadam of reality.