Impossible Things

He bolts up out of bed
Trying to remember the dream
Where he is a lord
A lord of Time
He picks up the journal and the inkwell
And begins to write
His muscles are still weak from sleep
Making his writing sloppy
He uses a bit too much ink
And it runs towards the spine
Like a black demon
Threatening to ruin his work
He quickly wipes up the spilled words
And continues recording his dream