I'm dunked on by a dense spray of freezing saltwater, moments before I wake up.

Wait, that's not right. Now my clothes and even messier hair are sopping wet, chilling me to the bone. Blasted ocean, never wanted a reason to head south towards the Atlantic or Channel for this matter. Which is peculiar that I would know the sensation of tasting sea salt on my lips, and feeling the weight of dampness in the first place. Right, my name is Thomas Robinson, and I'm most probably lucid dreaming, to an extreme degree I haven't experienced before.

I let out a sneeze, then scan the scene about me, from the wide blue cloths pulling against massive posts in the wind, to the three cylindrical towers lined down center row. The slippery floor rumbles a bit, as from the depths I feel a tremor followed by cracking sounds, and I make out a jagged pillar of ice in the fog pass by the railing on the side. Only then I realize I must be on a ship, not in the middle of the Atlantic or Channel but some Arctic hellscape.

A section of the wall from a shrouded building ahead turns outward to become a door, and a figure clad in the same blue as the ship's sails steps out. One by one, shadowy figures I missed lurking outside step indoors following the first figure, before I steal in right behind them, hoping to not be noticed and further wet. Just in case of anomalies like me walking into a freezer or gas chamber next in the dream sequence, I keep one foot out the door to bolt, into the bloody ocean if need be.

What immediately strikes me is the piece being hummed by the figure clad in blue, a proper instrumental arrangement I'd imagine comprised of piano and strings, yet no classical composers I know of ring a bell. Except all that comes short for naught, holy hell, is that what a senile Pinocchio looks like in my head--mate, not the childhood haunting I want to be in right now. Never mind the old coot's rambling, god those eyes right about bulging out of their sockets, talking about spares when you better get a mirror and sewing kit first yourself. Nah mate I'm out, if this ship's sailing nowhere, I'm gonna jump into the sea myself and [i]get somewhere.[/i]

I move when the lights suddenly go out inside the room, but as I run for the railing and over, my surroundings begin to blur and distort like a waking transition, the solid weight of water in my clothing becoming lighter yet airy. The last things I notice when I turn my head back, [i]are a strangely familiar head of long strawberry blonde hair, another of spiky black hair, and a sparkling card floating off the desk in the room bearing Roman numeral XIII.[/i]

[hr]
I haven't set an alarm clock for morning in a long time, so I wake with a jolting start to the beginning notes of [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SoITkIU6bqU]Musette in D Major[/url] from my mobile.

I shouldn't need it after the first week of university anyways, my internal clock will adjust soon enough to new schedules like I trained it to. Everything in my life must be routine, accurate and precise, for time is a finite resource. Sleep as long as possible, get up, pants on, business in the bathroom, hoodie over, bag shouldered, then out the door. The faster I do the latter activities, the more efficient results important stuff in my life outputs, like sleep and studying.

I open the fridge in the commons kitchen and pull out a loaf of bread, then take out a jar containing the baked, rather stewed beans I cooked the weekend moving into student accommodations. No complaints from the flatmates yet about my extensive use of the kitchen, though having taken advantage of everyone else still ferrying their boxes of extra rubbish to and fro. I only caught wind of two names myself, [i]a Gloria with an accent likely Yankee still adjusting, and a Tyler, hopefully another good Briton lad, like there have been many in that camp since the vote.[/i] Right, that reminds me to check the local food pantry after classes, since my scholarship doesn't automatically undo poverty.

After having my beans on toast hot directly from the frying pan, I wash up and head out. Through the drab and harshly lit hallway, down the clanging metal steps, jogging out heavier than they should be doors, past students waving on the freshers, [i]past another running student with two loose bangs flying in the air, past a table of students dealing cards to one another, past one sitting at their laptop in a campus common area I just enter, and even past a peculiar bunch of three, tall, short, and stunted.[/i] I know where I need to go and what I need to do, according to my class schedule and planned education. Why I'm doing this is an inefficient waste of thought, I fink.