His life was a flash of realities.
He couldn't really remember how it all had gone. His memory was like a series of fragments, not arranged in a straight line, but jumbled all over the floor, an impossible jigsaw puzzle of chronology. And try as he might to reassemble them into something semi-coherent, the best he could manage was clumping a couple of pieces together.
He was living in the present, each moment a new life, like waking up in the morning after a weird dream, the details dissolving into his memory like the screams dissolving into the black tide.
Everywhere around him was rushing water, its tendrils inky, darker than dark. They were pulling him into the depths, surrounding his vision, and he fought helplessly against them as he fell deeper and deeper into the night.
He took all his strength, tried to bottle it up into a light, to fight back the waves, get a moment of coherence, a moment of something he could hold onto. Running out of energy, his face bursting into a thick sweat, he began to gasp for air even as he burst into a bright glow momentarily and the water fell away.
He was in some strange sort of metal room. There wasn't really any normal analogue he could think of to describe it - wires stretched across the floor, tubes came down from the ceiling filled with strange black liquid, and haphazard scraps of metal littered the floor. Gravity was negligible at best and he was slowly floating around in front of what appeared to be some sort of sarcophagus.
Looking closely at the strange tomb, he began to lose his concentration. The inky tides flooded out the walls, black as night as they grabbed him, choked him. And as but a sliver of light, a sliver of reality, was left in view, he saw one last thing inside the object in front of him.
His face, his body, looking back at him - but it was not his own.
As if to shield from this forbidden view, the tendrils wrapped around his eyes and fins, cutting off his view of reality, choking him, dragging him back into the depths. And in that black silence, he heard a voice, distorted and mangled by the wear of a trillion minds and a billion years, beckoning him to give in and fade away:
[[LET YOUR SENSES BECOME OURS.]]
