I woke up, shivering, breathing heavily, and looked around. Nothing; just my cosy, comfortable bedroom. A nightmare, not real... it's not real; I thought to myself and heaved a sigh of relief.

It was a cold winter night and I did my best to make a human burrito out of myself, trying to find comfort between the memory foam and the quilt. Despite my best efforts to stay put, I decided to inevitably step out onto the cold floor because I was incredibly parched. I read somewhere that our subconscious has the power to induce bodily feeling; thirst, in this case, since in my nightmare, I was running… running for my life. It made perfect sense. But then again, there could be no subtext to it at all. I was thirsty because I was thirsty, somewhat like an example of a Münchhausen trilemma.

Effortlessly, I made my way into the kitchen. I knew my way around my own apartment, even in the dark. Besides, I couldn't hog all the credit; faint strips of the street light crept in through the one frosty glass window panes I had forgotten to drape for the night. I chugged almost a litre of the cool...