Nemo, letting go.

As of today, it has been 58 days since I left Providence, 1887, in my father's time cabinet, on the foolish journey that would eventually lead me here to New Babbage. Though I know not why, the homsesicknes has been especially acute today, and I cannot look at the cobbles of the Sqaure without thinking of the cobbled streets of my beloved College Hill, which I must now assume has been lost to me forever.

The afternoon was spent at my work, of course. I have installed a three-panel exhibit devoted to "le Grand animal fossile des Carrieres de Maestricht," the original mosasaur skull discovered in 1770 at the subterraneous chalk mines below Mount St. Pierre near the River Meuse and so named by Prof. Conybeare Mosasaurus. The text remains unfinished, as exhaustion overtook me before I was done, and so I returned to my attic above the Gallery. Also, Miss Paine helped me to frame and hang our portrait of Cuvier, placed now alongside that of Mary Anning.

The dreams are growing worse again. Those blinding halls of white light and the blue-fire sea, the devouring entity. Glimpses of those scattered splinters of myself that have yet to be consumed, if mere consumption is the correct word to describe what is happening to them. She grows ever more vast. And now I begin to guess at some purpose in her mind beyond the reconstruction of the form her Gallifreyan creators disassembled æons ago. She wants them dead, all that race. This machine, this thing, seeks revenge. Yes, I believe this is so.

Last night, I dreamt I had journeyed into the "TARDIS" of a Gallifreyan Time Lord, the woman named Sen whose name has come to me in earlier dreams. No, it was not me there in her device, but, rather, I saw through the eyes of the entity that haunts my sleep. The TARDIS was empty, but she searched it thoroughly, all but one room which was locked against her, and which even she could not find some way to enter. I felt a peculiar thrill of victory as she tried to break whatever lock or charm or seal held those doors shut against her! This TARDIS looked quite different from that of Mr. Sputnik, and many of the objects I saw therein were mysterious to me, their purposes unknown.

Do you see? she asked me. My dreaming self — if a mere dream it was — did not make reply. I will find them all, she said. And I will find myself complete and whole, and so I will find you, Nareth. In time, and I have no end of time open to me.

I have not returned to drink or to the laudanum, but my will weakens before these awful visions, and I do not know how much longer Miss Bracken's cure and my own self-restraint will hold against the urges. I know some small measure of comfort rests in those spirits.