Yeah. I'd believe that. If you accept that he also feels like a wandering hand, under a cozy warm blanket, creeping up your thigh even though you're an 8-year-old, and related to him. He's a big fucking smiling, doddering face pumping out calm, calm, calm pheromones while his tendrils extrude out the back, and slowly probe you, few and gentle at first, then more, and more forcefully. Motherfucking "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire" in Nat King Cole's voice lulls you while snaky appendages, more now, slither all over you. The lights flicker, then go out entirely, and now you're worried about the kids, because they're scattered about the floor in a decidedly un-fell-asleep-like posture and you're wondering what exactly was in that cocoa, the snowstorm has abated--maybe?--you're not sure, all you know is you don't hear it anymore, it's weird you don't hear anything anymore, not the storm, not Nat King Cole, not that big friendly face and his breathing, not even your own breathing you can't hear anything not even your own breathing not even the thrum of your blood and heartbeat or the usual tinnitus in your ears and there's nothing but slithering, creeping, slithering, that friendly doddering face and that smile and the snaky slithering and you want to scream and you do scream but there's nothing not your blood not your scream just a blankness where your scream should be a loud un-sound louder than any loud noise you ever heard in your life, and your mouth gets bigger, and your un-scream gets un-louder, a giant weight that is both inside your body and is your body, bigger and heavier and pushing out out out outwards, but it doesn't matter because nothing changes, not that smiling face, it doesn't stop the tendrils the snakes the wandering hand, your scream fills everything but does not matter because no-one can hear it and the hands are an oil covering your entire body you're frozen and that face is beaming and all you can smell is cocoa and