22nd of June

Another night, another dream, another change. And a rather welcome one, I feel - the dream did not begin just with alluring softness pressing against me. No, She was there, behind me, Her hands on my shoulders and Her lips against my ear. She whispered something, but not what I knew her to whisper every night so far:

"I am proud of you, little one. You are doing so well, I am so glad I chose you..."

This had a profound, if surprising effect on me. As yesterday and all the days before, I woke up. But not with a stiff member and close to release as I almost expected. No, instead I found myself deeply touched and close to tears. For you see, dear reader, I have never heard these words that were now whispered to me by Her in a dream, and especially not from a warm, gentle voice like Hers. My mother died when I was very young, and my father was a harsh taskmaster. The best I could hope for was a grunt of approval...

So when Miss Blake knocked on my door to remind me to get up, she did not make me jump as I was cleaning up myself or my bed sheets - I was lying in bed, wrestling with this strange feeling in my chest and a tightness in my throat. How can a dream make me feel so deeply emotional?

I have sought the company of Presley on my own today, asking him to eat lunch with me under the pretense of talking about work - which is, of course, a rather flimsy excuse, as we are both working on different experiments. We do, as it turns out, share the same frustrations as the samples from the woods of Arkham have been entirely inert and have disappeared, evaporated completely while in our care.We did, of course, not commiserate all too long, soon drifting towards small talk, and once more I found myself greatly enjoying Presley's company. That is, until I thought back to what I did last night while thinking about him. I was, of course, mortified, my face burning as I stammered and stopped talking. And what did good old Presley do? He stood up and walked around the table, putting one arm around my shoulders, asking if I was feeling alright. The sudden contact, the warmth of his arm even through our suits, neither helped with the whirl of thoughts making me blush even more fiercely.

I ended up excusing myself and fled into a restroom, where I am now writing this with the ghost of Presley's touch still lingering on my back. Is this really just me appreciating his dashing good looks, or something else? Maybe She knows

With the emotional turmoil of the morning and the enjoyable, if equally confusing time spent with Presley, I have not noticed - or rather, not really paid attention to - further developments, things I might even call Her influence no, that's insane. These dreams represent an internal struggle, I would say, a lack of closeness in the real world that I seem to seek in the form of a friendship with Presley. And these developments I mentioned?

I am simply putting on weight, that explains the softne pudgyness of my chest, the way my pants are tighter around the hips and behind, even the softer lines of my face can be explained by a few extra pounds. I am not 20 years old anymore, and I am not making sure I get as much physical activity as I should. I'm sure that's it.

But now I remember once more what She first whispered to me, about remaking me in her image... and to my own surprise, for the first time in days, I do not dread going to sleep.

I welcome it.