A large room, very large, fifty foot ceilings. Dingy, reddish, brownish, well-lighted, dirty tile floor. There are square floor-to-ceiling columns every so often. The windows have metal screens over them. It isn't light outside the windows; it's not outdoors outside the windows. Halfmoon lights hang on high cables and they too have metal screens covering them. This room could be a gymnasium but there's no equipment, no gym-type things. No furniture, for that matter. Just people.
There are hundreds of people. At least. Too many people to count, I don't know how many people. I recognize these people. Do I? Yes, it's quite possible that everyone I've ever known or met is in this room. No, that's not true. They are all my age; everybody here is my age. It's quite possible that everybody of my generation that I've ever known, met, been acquainted with, they are all here all of them in this room. I talk with people I have not seen for ten years or more and they have aged along with myself, it's funny how they look very much the same as they always did. Some of them I have not even so much as thought about in years and years. The humbuzz of conversation permeates the air.
Time passes and some people are filtering in and out of the room. I don't know where they exit or from where they come back inside. Something is wrong. Something about them, when they reenter the room, is very not right. They are changed, they've been physically altered, and I simply cannot believe what I'm seeing, because they have all become Borg. They have been assimilated. We are Borg. I am Locutus of Borg. No, that's not true, because they still smile and converse and carry on like nothing happened, but somehow they are all changed because the smile is always the same, always a meaningless toothy grin with no emotion and only lips and teeth and their eyes do not smile. Why they don't notice the moving implants projecting from their heads and faces, I haven't the slightest clue.
Some people are still normal. I am still normal (so to speak). Epiphany. Transcendent knowledge. There is a pattern here. It is the will of whomever is responsible for this strange event that the intelligent, articulate, knowledgeable among us should not be subjected to this because we must have all our faculties at our disposal in order that we continue to function at the level expected of us. They are the worker bees, the drones, and we the artists, philosophers, scientists. They are slaves while we are free.
Someone pulled the fire alarm.
This dream made me feel like a communist and also very silly when I woke.