[Observation report on collapsed dream No. --, year --, month -, day 1]
First of all, this isn't a report but a birth certificate, and this report won't be submitted for archiving, so I'm leaving all that nonsense about years, months, and dates blank-definitely not because the dream was so chaotic that I forgot the date.
Back to the point. Number Forty-Nine, my colleague and also my wife, just objected to my using this precious sheet of paper, which can survive in dreams, for personal purposes. But I knew it was only a token protest, so I went ahead anyway.
After all, if she really didn't want to leave our soon-to-be-born child a few rambling words as last words that might never be read, she would definitely drive her sturdy elbow into my stomach and put some sweet-dream crumbs, sweet enough to explode at the first sip, into my beloved black coffee to assault my delicate stomach and keep me from sleeping even in a dream.
Yes, that's right, my dear child. Your mother is a woman skilled at attacking your father. But that's all right. Number Forty-Eight, namely myself, has understood something since childhood: pain and sweetness are both nourishment.
I know your mother loves me very much-the force of her elbow strikes makes that clear. In fact, I love her very much too, and occasionally put some impossibly bitter nightmare crumbs into her favorite sweet milk as an expression of my love-
Uh, I should add something here. I sincerely hope the person reading the writing on this paper is you, the child of dream observers Forty-Eight and Forty-Nine. Your mother and I both love you very much. If not-friend, stop reading. Of course, you can finish it too. People are free.
My dear child, you