What grabbed his wrist was not a hand. Not exactly, not – anymore. It was coarse and bony and covered in fine, sharp hairs. Greg screamed, falling backwards, pulling the figure under the street lamp where, for a second, I saw it more completely than he did. It was definitely human once. At least, based on how it was screaming. But it was thin, with bits of twisted and discolored, covered in small, scurrying shapes. Its face was the most human part of it remaining. Except for the two black and hollow spaces where its eyes once were. From which now poured an endless stream of scuttling legs and fangs. Its mouth was full of them too, but I could see, as it grasped desperately at Greg; it was trying to say: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Tell her I’m sorry,” but words were not what tumbled from those lips.

Maybe the egoic self doesn’t get “balanced” by doing good inner work but it was a catalyst to diving down and in.