Saw my friends as streaks on paper. W effected a bright yellow highlight flecked with spots of magenta, evidently evidencing a carefree nature. S muddied in earth tones, brown and greens, an inherent predilection for stability. A, I could not understand nor determine a probable length, he ran a simple black, marred by moments of intense silver, a crayon ground into paper. It intrigued me, that silver could be so marring. And my own, a short gray made of ash and chalk, pocked by dimples where others had crossed.

In this dream, I hailed from Trafalmadore with a message of inclusion to the Galactic Union. I was dying, the instruments announced only a dozen more years before total decompression. My orders by Supreme Edict did not allow me to directly alter the natural course of this fledgling civilization; in these remaining years, I could only nudge events along through certain individuals. I wondered then if A was one such person. But I saw them all as mere streaks of color. Sought a pattern but none appeared.

When I woke, my head reeled in uncertainty, if self-delusion and self-awareness were so inseparable.

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