I had picked up a piece of refuse, in which it was talking about a razor. The razor itself was missing, but the packaging was soft and textured... it felt a little oily. I tried reading the information aloud, as I walked past a crowd of people who seemed to be going about their business. Someone stopped to listen to me, and I confronted him.
me: "I'm able to read when I'm awake. It's just difficult to read here."
man: "Yes. You are one of about 100."
me: "One of about a hundred whats?"
man: "I don't want."
me: "Huh? I mean, what am I called?"
me: "Look, quite simply, if I'm one of a hundred things of type X, what is type X?"
me: "Okay, so I am a morphin. You are not a morphin?"
man: "No, no, there are thousands of us right here--at this moment."
me: "Then you mean to say there are only 100 humans where I'm from, with, uh, 'morphin nature'?"
man: "Yes that is correct."
me: "Well, thank you."
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