H.P. Lovecraft and Sylvester Stallone are stuck in Stranded in a Lunar Base and forced to have a deep conversation.

"This cyclopean architecture, Stallone, it reeks of an elder, unnameable horror, a blasphemy against Euclidean geometry itself," Lovecraft shuddered, pulling his tweed coat tighter.

"Yo, Lovecraft, chill. Just see it as a big, messed-up building, like a really bad urban renewal project," Stallone grunted, flexing his biceps.

"But the angles, the *angles*! They whisper of dimensions beyond human comprehension, driving men mad with cosmic dread!" Lovecraft exclaimed, eyes wide with imagined terror.

"Mad? Nah, just gotta train harder, get tougher, push past the pain, y'know? Like Rocky, but with aliens," Stallone responded, cracking his knuckles.

"Aliens... squamous, amorphous entities from the blackest gulfs of space, their motives inscrutable, their power absolute..." Lovecraft trailed off, lost in his own dread.

"Look, cosmic or not, if they're messing with us, we gotta fight back. Gotta show 'em we ain't no pushovers," Stallone declared, his jaw set firm.

"Fight? Against beings that predate existence itself? It's futility, utter futility! We are but insects before their awful majesty!" Lovecraft cried, despair creeping into his voice.

"Hey, even insects bite back, right? Gotta believe you can win, even when the odds are stacked against ya. That's what it's all about!" Stallone countered, his voice filled with determination.

"Such... such naive optimism in the face of the inevitable, the cosmic indifference... it's almost endearing, in a pathetically human way," Lovecraft sighed, shaking his head.

"Endearing? Nah, it's called heart, Lovecraft. And that's somethin' even your monsters can't break," Stallone concluded, staring out at the desolate lunar landscape.