I am awake now, but I can feel It creeping. It which turns once swift flowing rivers into murky unmoving pools filled with loathsome hidden creatures whose eyes never blink nor see. Soon I will be as they who swim in those depthless stagnant waters. Not living; not dead; not even dreaming but simply existing. All that dwell near It are destined to meet such a pitiful fate, for out here, near It, there is nothing but those who lurk beneath the sickly red tinged muck which floats placidly atop the surface of their dreaded waters.
      I cannot remember why I came to this forsaken swampland. What purpose brought me here? Was I on my own or with companions? Did I even come here of my own free will? It seems that every time sleep comes for me these questions matter less and less. Sleep, if I can call It that, creeps closer more frequently now. I hesitate to call It sleep for I do not lay my head down to rest, nor do I feel refreshed upon awakening. I don’t even remember what dreams were dreamt, if any. So in truth what is describe as sleep seems more like the blinking of eyelids, for when It overtakes me I am unaware of the fact that I am unconscious. Only roots and tree limbs found wrapped about my body upon awakening hint at how long it has been since I last moved. They gripped me almost too tightly for escape last time, and I fear that when next It takes me I will find myself permanently entrapped within the limbs of these grotesquely gnarled trees, much like those nameless things are entrapped below where sunlight is forgotten.
      I think I would rather never again awaken, but the idea of eternal nonexistence fills me with a chill that reaches my very core. A chill that leads me to believe I am beginning to understand It which does not move, does not care, does not think, and slowly It…
…Is becoming me.