You are on your knees on the hard floor of my living room, your face level with my armchair. I lounge back, one boot dangling lazily in front of your nose, and I look down at you as one looks at something stuck to a shoe. There you are. Crawl closer. That's all you're good for. I watch, amused, as you obey. Pathetic. Thank me. Do you like my inner air, isn't?