He’s on Mars. Or really some terrain on Earth, that mimics the basic, brick-red, dusty plateau that constitutes most of the fourth closest planet from the Sun. He’s there with people, smaller people, humanoids, four-feet tall that are all black, pure black, so black that they look flat, but he knows that they are dimensional, solid, whole. They tell him they need water, that they are dying of thirst.
“Quench me sir! Quench me!” He hears them say. In the distance he sees a pitcher of water, an extremely large one, it has to be, since he can see it from this far away. It’s made of shiny see-through plastic, it’s blue-brimmed, and he can see the top of the water churning. He tells the small people that there is a huge pitcher of water in the distance, he says this with enthusiasm, but the small people retort back with a certain snarkiness; “The pitcher is too small- can’t you see it? It has barely enough water to quench a single one of us.” These people don’t seem to know how vision and space work, how a vanishing point skews depth, and thus the image size. It’s not actually that small, this is a huge pitcher of water, and he knows it, but his fundamental beliefs are almost immediately crushed. There is a manipulation of the spatial plane here. He reaches his arm out towards the direction of the pitcher and feels it, and he grabs it. The pitcher was not in the distance, but was floating right in front of him, a few feet away. Since it’s only inches tall, he crushes it instantly. The glass was apparently fragile, and as the water begins to drips from his finger, he awakes.