it is a small betrayal, this one, this one of disrespect. it is rough, like the edges of things, and they way they make my teeth crawl, the way they weigh my fingers. it is an awkward sitting, unsat with well and carried, silent, to the other room. i am a small child in the domain, in the parlour, in the place where i am told what to do, where i am quiet, and from here, from under the table, i realise that none of this is right and none of it is mine except the mouth of me and the unspoken words in it. they might still be there at the end of this, and where will we be then, my friend? where will we be then?