Aaand there it is. He'd wondered when the disregard for personal space was going to set in. Whatever, why even bother being anything but resigned anymore. Being read like a book, in the grossest most literal sense, that he minds a good bit more, but again, he's so put off track by her insistence on familiarity, he tolerates it with little more than a vexed huff. "Yes, quite."

"So you don't dream-dream," he offers the emphatic reduplication, hopefully treat enough that she doesn't take offense at the line of questioning, "But is there some difference between your normal state and what causes you to be here?" He doesn't suppose there has to be. Or does there? It's a little hard to think about. "I don't think I've met anyone here who wasn't dreaming in some fashion. But I haven't been so sociable."