H.P. Lovecraft and Ridley Scott are stuck in Stranded Ferris Wheel Ride and forced to have a deep conversation.

Lovecraft: This infernal contraption, suspended betwixt the maddening stars, offers a terrifyingly apt metaphor for humanity's precarious existence.

Scott: (Exhaling cigarette smoke) Precarious? Nah. More like a damn interesting visual, wouldn't you say? The light playing off the metal, the endless drop... primeval, raw.

Lovecraft: Raw, yes, but pregnant with a cosmic indifference that will ultimately swallow us whole, leaving only echoes of our futile aspirations.

Scott: Aspirations are overrated. It's the struggle, the fight against that indifference, that makes a good story. And a damn good film, of course.

Lovecraft: A story etched upon the void by creatures whose forms defy Euclidean geometry and whose motives are beyond mortal comprehension... a chilling narrative indeed.

Scott: Comprehension? Who needs it? Give me visceral impact, something that crawls under your skin and stays there. Like a facehugger.

Lovecraft: The very notion of such parasitic horrors only confirms my deepest fears: that we are but vessels, vulnerable to intrusions from the unspeakable outer realms.

Scott: Or... maybe we're the parasites, Lovecraft. Infecting this universe with our ambition, our greed, our need to build these goddamn Ferris wheels.

Lovecraft: A horrifyingly plausible prospect, yet one I dare not dwell upon lest the abyss gaze back and claim my sanity.

Scott: Sanity's a luxury, pal. Embrace the chaos, film it, and make something unforgettable. Now, when are these bastards getting us down?