A mess of scribbles and marked out words cover the top of the paper

...and the nightmares. I can't sleep, not a wink, without feeling the needles. The worms. The burrowing. I can't shut my eyes without a faint "hissssss" -always- crowding my mind.

But I'm not there anymore. At least, that's supposed to be reassuring...

more scribbles and marked-through words

...Sanctuary it's called. And some people say it's safe. I've never thought of safe beyond relativity.

But there is "Charles". Mandarin, that crazed old man. I can't decide about him. His smug belief in the "Primordial", his power to control godforsaken -slime- of all things...

But he did rescue us from the worms. He saved my scarred hide, to twist my mind around his theories. Rat-people. Illithid "up top".

I just want something to -make sense-!

And for this damn itch to go away...