H.P. Lovecraft and Margaret Atwood are stuck in Submarine on Lockdown and forced to have a deep conversation.

Lovecraft: This claustrophobic metal womb presses upon me, a tangible manifestation of the crushing, uncaring vastness that awaits us all in the inky depths beyond.

Atwood: Vastness is just another word for potential, Howard; this submarine, though confining, offers a contained ecosystem, a microcosm reflecting the larger power structures we've created.

Lovecraft: Power? Such flimsy constructs against the cosmic indifference; soon, the ancient, unknowable things will stir, and your "power structures" will crumble like dust.

Atwood: But even in the face of oblivion, we strive, we adapt, we tell our stories; that is the essence of our flawed, persistent humanity, a stubborn weed in the cracks of your cosmic despair.

Lovecraft: Stories are but feeble attempts to rationalize the irrational, to impose a comforting narrative on a universe that cares nothing for comfort.

Atwood: Perhaps, but narratives shape our reality, they are the cages we build for ourselves, and sometimes, the keys to escape.

Lovecraft: Escape is but a fleeting illusion; the true horror lies in the realization that there is nowhere to truly escape from the self, the seed of madness we all carry.

Atwood: Self-awareness, though painful, is also our strength; to confront the darkness within is to understand the darkness without, and perhaps, to mitigate its power.

Lovecraft: Mitigate? You speak of trifling with forces beyond comprehension, entities whose very existence defies the laws of physics and sanity.

Atwood: And you, Howard, romanticize them, granting them power they don't inherently possess; fear is a powerful tool, but so is understanding, even in the face of the abyss.