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.

Nine asserts a dark red-orange. K is German and a spy. Two smells of pine and shades of green. Four is dark and old, bent or sitting. As a kid, I loved how the disparate graphemes merged to form a word, a complex relationship, and further on, to sentences. If I had delved deeper then, perhaps I could have carved out a Rosetta stone to translate every single emotion or thought, that the written word could be perfected to define by form. But I didn’t know how to speak then. I barely know how to now.