Dreaming in color separations again

I'm turning pages and every spread is a proof I've already pulled — cyan, magenta, yellow — but the inks are alive, drifting like tadpoles in a jar. A fox on page three keeps telling me the margins are too tight, and I know it's right, I know it the way you know things in dreams. I wake up with my hand curled like there's a pencil in it. That's it, that's the whole night.