My first thought on waking was that my head was sore. I couldn't remember any reason why it should be, but on opening my eyes it became clear. I was clothed in the smaller garments that I had purchased for Hyde, and the glass beaker on the table next to my chair held the remnants of my concoction. I stared at the ceiling, feeling the remaining tendrils of Hyde withdraw themselves from my aching head, and tried to recall the previous evening. For my pains I was rewarded with some vague images of a crowded space and the loud shouting of many male voices, but that was all. Increasingly my times as Hyde were becoming less and less clear to me once I returned to normal. Part of me suspected that it was a recent thing that was indicative of a growth in Hyde's strength of character; a schism between us which could only grow, but part of me also wondered if it hadn't been there from the first. Sometimes when I slept, I seemed to see things in my dreams that I had no memory of in my waking mind; images of a nature that the mind could not conjure.