"I fear I am becoming less tangible. A kind of idea of someone else, as a character; I know this is probably definable as some kind of mental illness," he paused. The Doctor had those ever waiting, wet, glistening eyes. The Doctor never should any sign of being in agreeance or otherwise, he was a poker player, there was never a cue to continue or stop, just a presence, so he continued, "I'm just not sure I should be,” be tried to find the right words, “I’m not sure that… I don’t know, I’m just not sure.” Without warning there was change: he was in a food court, possibly in a shopping centre, maybe at a major train station, its familiarity was vague. Samantha sat opposite him: deadpan. “We all feel like that sometimes,” she comforted, "do you wa-" she never finished her sentence: he found himself lying in his bed, the switch from vertical to horizontal made his head spin.
He had an electric taste in his mouth. The insides of nose felt wet. The kind of low-immunity 'wet' you feel after staying up all night, a kind of 'running-yourself-ragged' feeling. He over-analyzed his physical state. He began too much of his internal monologue with 'He'. He felt dizzy. He was dizzy. He closed his eyes.