Nightmare at 20,000 leagues under the sea.

Portrait of a frightened man: Mr. Paul Blanchard, nineteen, man, son and liar on sick-leave. Mr. Blanchard has just been discharged from a sanitarium where he spent the last six months recovering from a nervous breakdown, the onset of which took place on an evening not dissimilar to this one, on an airliner very much like the one in which Mr. Blanchard is about to be flown home - the difference being that, on that evening half a year ago, Mr. Blanchard's flight was terminated by the onslaught of his mental breakdown, and featured more bears. Also, he's not flying, he's on a submarine. Tonight, he's traveling all the way to his appointed destination, which, contrary to Mr. Blanchard's plan, happens to be in the darkest corner of the sea. You know, the bit with those fuck-ugly fish with the lights.
 Arrgh! I'm in a submarine, and a giant narwhal is ripping up one of the wings!... Hey, wait a minute...

Sorry. I thought of the title first, then tried to make a joke out of it. I have failed, and am going in to self-imposed exile in the cesspit of mankind, France. I shall be giving away all my possessions before I leave, so friends: get in an application form if you want anything, accompanied by an essay about my brilliance. Obviously, don't make it too good, or I might be compelled to stay.