Last night was a disaster. How foolish I had been to believe myself ready to speak your words. Despite the stream of semi-conscious thoughts you nourish me on from up above, I had not yet fed enough.
Instead of imparting the intended wisdom I wasted half the night dodging that ridiculous oaf and his accursed flashlight while you slept soundly with your bear in the other room. It was not my first failure, but it was by far the most disheartening. I was wasting so much time.
I could understand my previous flops. Ill-researched and poorly conceived, I marvel at how far I got. It was a success by low standards. Every time you ran screaming from your bed and bear to hide in the oaf's room for the night I could rest a bit easier.
I had wriggled closer each time. You almost didn't escape me that one night. If only I had caught you then, I wouldn't be so rushed for time. We wouldn't be were we are now.
I apologize for the grip my tendrils have on your mouth, but I can't risk a scream right now. We can't be to careful of who might be listening. And, I fear I may have caused you some pain as I hoisted you out from under your sheets. It couldn't be avoided dear child, at least not on the night you are intended to be dinner.
Because secrecy no longer matters, I let you gaze upon as much of my form as I fear you can handle. While focusing on the mental image of lips I am finally able to grow the desired set, just inches from your ear. Avoiding playful experimentation, I focus on the production of a whispered, utilitarian groan.