Fragmented Sleep

Entry 417

Last night, the dreams were… different. The usual static hum in the corners of my vision gave way to a slick, green luminescence. It wasn't light, exactly, but a presence that felt like oil seeping into everything. My apartment, the one overlooking Shinjuku, started to melt at the edges. Walls oozed a thick, dark ichor that smelled faintly of copper and ozone, clinging to the air like a shroud. I tried to call out, but my voice was a gurgle, thick with something not my own.

A shadow, not a human one, moved at the periphery. It had too many limbs, too many eyes, but they weren't seeing. They were absorbing. The most terrifying part wasn't the shifting geometry or the way my teeth felt like they were vibrating loose; it was the sheer logic of it all. As if this corruption was the natural order, and my sanity the aberration. I woke up gagging, the taste of rust and something acrid on my tongue. My phone, usually a lifeline, felt heavy and inert in my hand, another piece of the mundane world struggling against the encroachment.

Handwritten note, smeared with what appears to be dried tea, found tucked inside a discarded Tokyo subway map. Dated 2025/12/28.