My skin crawls. This must be how victims of those old anti-drug PSAs feel. The symptom of an unnamed but life-destroying neurotic tic. The membrane separating sleep paralysis and wet dreams is too thin to begin with. Violation of muscle, connective tissue with no nerve-endings. That’s the weakest part of people, the hypnagogic catboy tells me. I’ve read about people seeing machine elves on DMT. I tell him he’s just another machine elf. Hypnocatboy says he is here because my frontal lobes died during the televised war on terror. Childhood developmental psycho-sexual blahblahblah trauma. Stupid! Wrong person in the wrong place, but maybe never the wrong time, I insist. “You’ll accept it,” Hypnocatboy laughs. “I’m here to stay. There’s a little piece of me in everyone, everywhere.” It’s the eyes. Nothing. Never blinking. Perfect stasis. Yes, let’s fly away, surf the world wide web. It’ll just be like the movies, so perfect, so escapist.