Scotch Mate, I don't do Water

Darling, I call on to thee,

In respect to your fee.

Pressure is off the table,

Which makes me unable.

You are special, you see,

And I have to play my cards right,

Though that does not give

You the freedom of manoeuvre.

Ties that bind,

Makes the situation tight.

I want you all to myself,

But you’ve to respect,

I work with dust.

Forget the words of mummy dearest,

You are in too deep.

And my dust has already worked

Its way up your core.

Don’t try to be smart.

You are in debt

And I’d hate to see the ink run red.

Upon waking up, my brain replays the last few scenes of my dream. Dimmed lights, a dark room and a crimson envelope. As vague as it sounds, it feels familiar. More of a memory than a dream. I sit up after a few moments and begin to analyse them in a lazy way. It is suddenly not clear, like my brain is sucking away any evidence there was of the memory but my gut tells me I have to remember.

My eyes now fully open as I stifle a yawn. I stretch over to my bedside