He found he couldn't go back to sleep, and that annoyed him because he knew that, now, he'd feel drained for the rest of the day. 

​     Images flooded his brain, images odd because they were of people and incidents both his yet not, of aliens beyond his imagination yet as real as a thumb. They scared him, the images were so intense. They invaded his internal landscape. Trevor struggled within himself to grasp memories that he knew were his, his memories of Helen and their three children, his memories of his pretty horrible, then really horrible, childhood and teen years, grasp them for fear they'd evaporate. 

​     What in the fuck was going on? 

CONTINUE