A bottle! A bottle is all we need, Alistair.
It is Alistair, yes?
Chin up. Across the sea, your Morning Rose awaits. She wanders the shore, dawn in her eyes. Delicate fingers twine in anticipation.
And for me? Well, doom. But my doom, as I’ve seen it. Wet or dry, my delirium lingers in the moonlight. But the Lucid Dreamer waits in the shadows for me.
So while you splash through the sunlit tide to Her, I slog through the pale marsh to my end, compos mentis.
Bliss, cast in gold and silver. But first, three mercies: Cold numbs the limbs. Scotch blunts the mind. Sleep builds a bridge between this vagary and the next.