You're never there.

I'm here for you, ok? You don't have to worry about human rights or other similar constraints. At least, not around me. I might be both killing and dying, over and over again.

Yes, I'd be delighted to show you around, have you escorting me, or would you rather have me act as your guide? Your answer will be thoroughly heard, heavily distorted and then ignored. Even so, you'll think I'm trying to please you. Can you understand the irony? The hate I feel for not been able to say anything? I despise you, and I always will.

But, then again, why would I ever want to say anything to you? Just like that hidden scar or tattoo. It changes everything just by being there. It doesn't matter if nobody knows it's there, except you. What matters is that you know. But I've seen that tattoo. We were fucking, but I couldn't get my eyes off it. It frightened me.

By the way, can I get you a cup of coffee?