Ink Smoke

A (somewhat) poetic recollection of last night’s dream

When the small white dog stopped barking and the silence of the night took over, a mysterious figure could be seen standing in the corner, partly illuminated by the light of three purple candles on the table at the other side of the room.

Not knowing whether I should disturb the sensation of loneliness that floated in the air around me, I shyly walked towards the figure who was now smoking something.

As I walked closer, I got engulfed by the gravity of their presence. I felt my cheeks burning, worried about my uncontrollable blushing.

“Don’t worry about it”, the figure told me. And I got drunk by the sound of their voice.

Taking one more step towards them, I could now see that between their delicate fingers rested an ink cartridge from a pen. They lit up the cartridge and smoked it like a cigarette.

“Isn’t this going to stain your teeth?” I naively asked and blushed again.

“Don’t worry about it”, the figure told me.

And I got lost in the maelstrom of their ink smoke.