In the morning when I wake up I can still taste the smoke in my mouth, the sweet leaves that were burned by the Droogs as another Cthulu Cthursday came and went. I take a deep breath and try hard to remember the bottles that passed through my hand. They seemed to be as legion as our troupe hopes to become and if my memory serves, I drank each of them to the dregs.
I idly pass my hand over the white carpet of the floor I slept on and find a bottle of water close by which I drink greedily. I may not believe in him, I tell myself, but I think Old Tentacles may just believe in me.
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