A/N: Readers, if extremely harsh language offends you, read not this chapter. It is the half-lucid angry ramblings of a very sleepy Scotsman. It is therefore ... notquitekosher.

Enjoy.

Mr. Gold's Dream Journal

Day One

1:15 a.m.: Oh, hey, let's fucking get up at one o'clock to write dreams down. Why not? I see no reason why not. Because we are smart people, aren't we Dr. Hopper?

You bitch.

I'm awake at one in the chuffing morning because of you. You want to know what dream I had? I don't remember. I'm awake at one o'clock, and I have work tomorrow, and I don't even remember the dream.

And you are going to read every word of this journal as revenge, you fuck.

2:25 a.m.: Wait, I remembered it. And I apologize, because this is actually rather psychological or buggering shite. So it starts in this forest. But the forest isn't what one would call a standard forest. There were no conifers. The trees were made of babies. I don't know how that works yet, because the library isn't open this early (even though I am ninety percent certain the librarian sleeps there and is simply ignoring my knocks) and the library has free Why-fie, unlike my home.

Y-fie?

Wie-fy?

Wy-fy?

I'm scribbling all this shite out in the morning.

Anyway, the dream. Oh, SHIT, I forgot it all again the fuckingbuggerytoleySHITEcunt . I'm going to sleep.

2:39 a.m.: I hate you. Still awake. Have work tomorrow. To-fucking-day.

2:43 a.m.: I think there was something about … grass?

2:56 a.m.: Do daydreams count? Because I'm having a nice one right now about you and a sharp shaft up your fucking British arse HELL I'M TIRED.

4:45 a.m.: Must have dozed off.

4:57 a.m.: Well, I'm awake now. Thanks to you. Might as well get ready for work. Hey, Mr. Gold, want to go to work at five in the morning YES, WHY NOT? SOUNDS LIKE FUN.

You bugger. How the hell can I keep a dream journal if I'm up all night thinking about dreams? I hate you.

1:34 p.m.: Dozed off in shop, remembered dream, regret harsh words from earlier but am lacking initiative (or give-shits) to switch notebooks. Besides, I would have to purchase yet another notebook, and since this one, in the light of day, appears to be covered with happy bees … well, it explains the odd looks I was getting at the general store, and I have no inclination to go through that again.

So there was a forest of babies, and … I'm fairly certain that I was a waitress. I had an apron, I know that. At some point, however, I made an abrupt transition from aproned person of indeterminate gender-

Oh, hell. I am definitely switching notebooks.

Goodbye.