At the back of your braincase rests a mystical parasite, feeding on your psychic emissions and growing slowly sapient upon the sap. Through the eyes of squidkind, a small, violet, smoothly translucent cephalopod bobs in the air at the curve of your neck, tethered by spectral lines of force like the roots of a small exotic plant. To a creature other than a squid, the only evidence of the invader is an empty space in the mind where thoughts churn darkly, twisting as if in the depths of a swift river: the subconscious: the primal flesh of feeding on which the Squid suckles. The Squid in your mind gnaws and sucks dryly at the patterns of your firing nerves until it is keen of eye and full of longing, its limbs flicking with energy, then it tears free and streaks past the atmosphere, past planets, to dance and dart among the loose rocks, dust and pebbles of space, weaving stories among them for an age.