"In waking, we know not of our waking, nor in sleep, do we know of our waking- RATS. Twenty thousand and three rats, all crawling in the walls, one by one by one by one and *crawling, crawling, right under it all and into them as they wake...*"

(The man is babbling away in an incoherent string of sentences that seem to make no sense. He is fearful of his own words, and deeply troubled.)

"I wanna be home. That's all. Wanna be home. Anywhere but here."

(The man is near-silently begging to be removed from where he currently is, but seems to lack the willpower to even just ask for it - he is only able to express, at a basic level, that he wants to be 'home'.)

"They didn't look at me right - no, didn't look right. Not them. Not *themselves*. Something *else*. He wouldn't stop staring - I couldn't get away, he just kept *staring* - and with those holes. With ink, *black ink,* spilled across the pale sea, pulled and stretched and tearing and cracking..."

(The man is attempting to give a testimony of what he's seen, and is clearly greatly distressed by the recollection. He words are quick, feverish, almost as if he's battling himself ferociously to keep talking.)