A dream slips off your face and onto the floor and crumples in a messy shiny pile. You open your eyes slowly but they’re covered in eye mask. So all you can see is eye mask. And hardly even that, because your eyes are glued shut by eye goo and little crusty bits. If you were a soup, these might be the croutons. The croutons are everyone’s favourite bit, aren’t they? What kind of soup would I be, you ask yourself. Carrot and coriander? Or some kind of broth? Like, with chunky bits of root vegetable and stringy meat. Maybe a goulash. Is a goulash a soup? Or a stew? What’s the difference? You peel the mask from your face and pick the flakes from your eyes, and give them a little taste. So good, you think to yourself. And you groggily swing your legs around to the side of the bed, and slip slightly on the puddle left by the rippled satin of your melting dream, but you keep your footing, and you go and get a coffee.