I know you, he says.
Maybe in a past life, I say.
No seriously, he says. Or maybe in dream.
If we’ve met in a dream, tell me. What color was I?
I don’t know, he says. He doesn’t understand the question.
If we’d really met, he would know that I am black and I am red.
But to the blue man with the olive skin, I am something so, so, so pure and simple.
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