There has been a dream eater at the foot of my bed ever since I got back. I thought he would have left after we moved, but he's still here; I can't see his face, but I feel his eyes on me, watching, always watching. He's well fed, and when I get up he slinks into the closet, but someone tells me he's getting too large for it. I don't even know who; he's eating away at sleep and mind, and thought comes sluggishly, reluctantly. Nothing is to be sensible when he feeds, and he is feeding.
He is always feeding. I don't know the last time I got more than an hour of sleep. Before I returned. Before this. Before, before, before.
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