All these entities seem to wish is to be fleshed out. "Drape me," they implore, "in your dreams." For they are formless - mere shreds of being. Specter haunt me not; I offer neither harbor in me nor even purchase upon my thoughts... For all the good that does. There is no shaking them. They flicker and flit about one as filaments and films. Will o' the wisp I'll chase you never, howeversomuch such may be my desire. Mine will be strictly the way oft-trodden.
Where, now, am I? Which cardinal the run? How is it I have gone astray? What woes now become?